Disbelief
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: When someone's body is broken, how can he get put back together again? When the mind is broken, is it even possible? Already complete. One chapter per day as usual.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is a story about torture, but it's more about what comes after it. Torture is something that can tear a person apart to the point that they don't even know who they are anymore. Recovering from that is difficult. It's sometimes impossible. Some of this story is told from the point of view of a broken mind and is therefore strange and possibly confusing. That is intentional. The point of view will bounce around as will the level of comprehension of the one who has been the victim. I started writing it on Christmas Day. Don't ask me why. I have no idea. It is set in season 6, but there are few, if any, spoilers for the season. I hope you enjoy it!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of NCIS. The characters (not even my favorite computer geek) belong to DPB, not to me. I make no money off this...and that's why I'm still poor.

* * *

**Disbelief  
**by Enthusiastic Fish

**Chapter 1**

All is agony, ripping through him like a bullet, like a spear, tearing him apart as it moves. It should be a bullet, should be something...something...something real, not just the sheer agony of his mind, shrieking in the face of what his eyes are telling him, that impossible moment when everything is lost, pulled away, ruined...

_...and it's all my fault..._

He can't breathe, can't find the air in the atmosphere all around him, can't understand why there is no open wound, pouring out his blood onto the pavement, destroying him, pulling him to pieces. He _wants_ that. He wants that wound, that physical manifestation of his anguish, something to tear him away from the sight, something to tear him from the...from the world that has just dug into his brain, shredding his former reality and then gluing the pieces back together again...but some parts are missing. The most important ones are gone, blown away on the puffs of air...the air he can't breathe.

_...and it's all my fault..._

The pain. The pain is worse than anything else. It is the one thing that makes it impossible to run. He is glued in place, staring blindly at the scene unfolding in front of his glazed eyeballs. Bodies...blood...fire...everything is on fire. He is burning from the inside out and he cannot stop it. He can't stop the fear, the terror, the total nightmare that he sees. Like a monster, it runs rampant through his brain, its claws rending reason, razing logic...and it smiles as it does so.

_...and it's all my fault..._

It's like a movie that loops over and over again, showing him the same scenes that tear him apart. The monster roars in triumph as it breaks every synapse in his mind. Resisting the destruction is an idea that has long since been destroyed itself. All that is left is the excruciating pain that wanders in and out of every crevice, leaving burning torment in its wake. ...alone...

_...and it's all my fault..._

There is not enough air to fill his lungs. There is not enough life to save him from death. There is not enough... The only thing in plentiful supply is the pain in his mind. With the monster-driven attacks wringing him dry of anything else, it surprises him that the pain can be so constant...like the pictures he sees repeated over...and over...and over...and over...

_...and it's all my fault..._

Then, without warning, the lights go out. All is darkness. The images have burned into his retinas, leaving sharp, bright shadows in the darkness. Bright shadows. The darkness can't get rid of the pain in his mind, can't put out the fire that still burns unceasingly inside him. Sounds he didn't even know he was hearing also fade...silence. Solitude. Loss.

_...and it's all my fault..._

A light to the side of him. Shadows...dark ones. The bright shadows are fading away. He sees the light in the corner of his eye. It is not silent. There is a strange sound, echoing in his ears, throbbing in time with the unending agony. It does not stop even as the bright shadows completely disappear, even as other sounds intrude...sounds he cannot interpret. Interpretation requires a mind not shattered.

_...and it's all my fault..._

The sounds grow louder, and the dark shadows do not fade. They multiply and they grow larger. The dominating sound is still that strange one, harsh and somehow familiar...it is something he should know...perhaps, at one time he did...but no longer...

_...and it's all my fault..._

Then...

...the shadow in front of him leaned in closer. The sound continued, but his eyes were locked onto the shadow...that was no longer a shadow. There was...

_...and it's..._

...other sounds, all around, beginning to drown out the pain in his head...

...somewhere...somewhere beneath the pain, the agony, the tortured remnants of what had once been an intelligent human being...something different, something...old...dusty...hidden away from the monster...it arose out of its hiding place...

_I'm breathing..._

That was the sound. His own breathing was the sound. He hadn't been aware of it until that very moment...but he was breathing...that meant there was air. Another awareness...he had a body...a hand raised, somehow conjured from the metal chair to which it had been bound. The hand moved...

_That's my hand..._

...it touched the shadow in front of him...it touched the shadow! Touch! That was...

_...and it's all my..._

Another hand, but not his, took his, squeezing it with a touch that was almost painful...but a different kind of pain. He raised his other hand which had also appeared from the metal chair. He touched the shadow again. Sounds continued all around him, but he didn't know what those were. They were subsumed beneath his breathing...which was still loud, still harsh.

_...and it's all my fault..._

Another dusty possibility rose up from the hiding place. It was related to the sounds he could hear, but still nearly incomprehensible. There was a part of him that expected this all to disappear again...like those bright shadows of pain and agony. But still...the idea was one that was to be explored if possible.

There was an echoing sound in his head, much like the sounds he could faintly hear beneath his breathing. To him, it meant...it meant that shadow in front of him, that shadow he could touch. That was all.

To the shadows around him...it was something else.

"Boss..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The sound he made gets a reaction from the shadow...the shadow that is not quite a shadow any longer. He sees more now. He sees eyes. Yes...yes, they are eyes. Blue eyes. Staring back into his own.

_My eyes are green...I have eyes..._

He has eyes...but they can't be seeing what they are seeing. He knows this must be wrong. He knows because he has seen it over and over and over and over again until the pain of the vision is so deeply rooted that it festers like a sore. He knows they are all dead.

_...and it's all my fault..._

...and yet the sounds continue. The shadow continues to clear...and it contradicts what he knows. Again, he raises his newly-reappeared hand. Again, he touches the face...not the shadow, the face and he can't understand how it could be possible that he could touch someone who is dead.

_...and it's all my fault..._

The face moves...the...the mouth moves. The mouth. Eyes, nose, mouth...ears. Sounds come from the mouth. Yes. That's it. Sounds...they're not just sounds...what are they? They mean something...don't they? He looks straight ahead, knowing that he can't turn to the right or to the left. Turning means more pain. Besides, only people with bodies can turn, can move...

_...but I have a body...don't I? I have hands. I have eyes. I can...see...hear...touch...there are other things aren't there?_

He raises his hand that is in someone else's hand and looks at it. It isn't a real-looking hand. It's bony and gnarled...dirty. Not a real hand...but it moves and it touches things...it has to be a real hand. It's real and not real. He wonders if his eyes are real and not real as well. They're seeing things that they couldn't be seeing...people who are dead...but they are seeing.

_...and it's all my fault..._

The sounds keep coming and something tries to turn his head. He resists. Turning his head is wrong. That makes more pain. Stare straight ahead. Watching, always watching. The sounds he's been making become more agitated. He wonders why. He isn't aware of deciding to make the sounds. It's like his mouth, now that it knows it can make noises, has decided to continue doing so. He doesn't understand what he is...doing. The shadow...the face is replaced by another...face...another impossible face.

_...what...no...how...you're all dead..._

The thought brings back the anguish...and suddenly...his body...yes...his body...it's flopping around. How is that possible? His body is rigid, metallic...wait...no, that's not right. It's not. What is it? What is his body? Does he really have a body or is it...like his eyes and hands...merely an expression of real and not real?

_...and it's all my fault..._

...and all the while he stares straight ahead. His eyes do not shift. They are not even tempted to look anywhere else. That temptation was destroyed long ago...destroyed by the same monster that destroyed everything else. It is...it is...what is this? Pain! ...pain like he has felt so many times before...that pain that is tied to the images he sees and even though he cannot see them, he can see them. ...again...real and not real. He does not make loud sounds, but he hears his breathing become...more noisy. He feels the pain in his head...all through his body...his body that he didn't even know was there...

_...and it's all my fault..._

He stares straight...up, seeing glimpses of faces...the faces that can't be real...the faces that are supposed to be dead...dead...dead...all dead. Gradually, he becomes aware of another sensation...the feeling of his own body moving.

_I'm breathing...my body is moving. I do have a body..._

It is strange to him, feeling his body expand and contract. Open...close...open...close... over and over as he breathes in and out. He doesn't remember feeling that before, but it is so firmly tied to the sound he has identified as his own breathing that he feels that it must be him breathing that is making the movements. Why does it not fit? He does not fit in his body. He rattles around inside it...inside what must be there.

_...and it's all my fault..._

He has no conception of himself...whatever there is of himself. He remembers that his eyes are green_,_ that he has hands, that he can breathe. There is nothing else...no other part that is...himself. He hears more noises from the sides, from above his head but he only stares straight up...and he doesn't move...although he _is_ moving. He doesn't understand how that can be possible.

_What am I doing?_

At any moment, he knows this will disappear. He has dreamed of this being true...no...no, he hasn't. Thinking of what isn't true is wrong and is punished. It cannot be true...no, it is not true. He will not look. He will not believe. He will wait for the images to return, wait for the searing pain that rushes through his mind. He does not have a body. He does not see. He does not feel. Nothingness does not feel. He does not have the right. He watched them all die. He will watch them again...and again...and again. He will see them die until he knows...again...that it is truth. Only truth. Only...

A hand on his...

_No! I do not feel! I do not see. No!_

He hears the harsh sound that indicates he is still breathing.

_No! I can't breathe! _

Immediately, the sounds stop...but then...then...something happens.

_Something is wrong...but why? I didn't have enough breath before. Why is it not enough now?_

He hears...a...he hears a voice...it is a voice. A voice...one that speaks. People...people speak, and as he cannot hear his breath, he can hear the voice...almost...almost he can understand what it is saying...but the voice is disappearing...disappearing like he knew it would. The voice is dead. It is dead and dead voices cannot speak.

He is falling...falling toward darkness...but when did the darkness disappear? When did it become so bright? The darkness is coming toward him. He cannot understand. It does not make sense. Somehow, he knows this darkness is different. This darkness is like the first darkness...the darkness that brought the images, that brought the pain. This is that darkness. He does not want that darkness back...even if it means believing and being punished. He can't...he can't fall into that darkness. His fear, his terror, his grief...it all bursts out of him in one harsh cry, one frantic exhalation of air that he did not even have.

"NO!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He drags in another breath, a deep one that is released in another shriek...this one has no word attached to it. He screams, knowing that is what he is doing but knowing also that it means nothing. He is still moving...and he is no longer where he was. He does not understand...

...and so he screams. He screams without thought, without intent. He does not know why he is screaming but the screams continue. They are not loud...but he feels as though they are tearing him to pieces...like the monster that has possessed his mind. He stares straight up. He is on his back but that doesn't change...he feels his body...all of it, bunched up in a need to shriek, to get...to stop something from happening. He cannot remember what it is.

...and so he screams. The faces around him are closer. Those faces that are not real...they can't be. He screams again...and again...and again...and again. He cannot stop screaming. In between each scream, the harsh sounds of his breath echo in his ears...but the screams are strange because he can only hear them inside him, not outside. He is still moving and the faces just will not go away. He feels hands, nicer hands than his own, hears voices, but he cannot stop. A dam has burst inside him and he screams out all the screams he did not scream before. The screams he had buried inside because to express them only made the pain worse.

...and so he screams. By screaming, he holds off the moment when he must confront the real reality that has been temporarily displaced. That moment when he sees the dead...dead...dead...dead. He will see them again. The dead should not open their eyes and act alive again. They should not talk to him. They should not touch him. The dead should stay dead. ...and they must be dead...

...because he knows that he killed them... He has seen himself kill them over and over and over and over and over again. He cannot stop the image. That is what causes him the most pain...more than the pain in his mind, more than the pain of turning his head, more than the pain of being alive. It is the pain of killing the people who are pretending to be alive all around him. He wishes that they wouldn't pretend. It is too cruel to make him think that he has not killed them.

...and so he screams. Atrophying muscles in his throat are forced into high gear as air rushes past them. Somehow, even as he screams over and over, he knows what he is doing. He does not know how he knows because it seems that until the images disappeared he had known absolutely nothing except for the pain. Still, even as he observes this physiological process, he screams and his mind tries to get rid of the pain.

...and so he screams. A body. He has a body. He must because he can feel it being lifted in someone's arms. He can feel that he is being held, but because he is being held by dead people, does it really count? He knows he is alive. He must be because death wouldn't hurt so much...unless Hell exists in confronting him with his guilt over and over.

...and so he screams...

...because he knows that he killed them...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They watch him as he screams. They try to stop him, even as the screams decrease in volume to mere whispers. They want to help him because he is in such pain. They can see the fear in the eyes that refuse to shift from straight ahead to anything else. He will not turn his head. He will not move...except for his hands and even they are motionless now. His breathing is almost as painful to hear as the screams: harsh and agonizing. His pain is evident in every manifestation of life. He should not be alive, not after so long...not after three months. It might have been a mercy to have him be dead instead...but they cannot wish for it.

So they watch him as he screams. They know that once the blood tests come back, the doctors will give him something to make him sleep, something to stop his screaming, but for now, they watch and it makes them cry. It seems that all this time they have been waiting and now...now, they still have to wait because...because they haven't really found him. He's gone, as far beyond their reach as when they could not find his body.

They watch him as he screams. It is difficult to realize that there is nothing they can do. He cannot hear them...or if he can, he cannot respond...or is refusing to respond. They don't know what is going on in his head. They only know what they can see of his body...which is bad enough. They wish they hadn't seen, hadn't found him the way they did. They wish that they had found him three months ago...or that they hadn't _needed_ to find him at all. They wish anything but that they have to stand here and watch him scream. He does not move, does not writhe in pain. He has only spoken two words...and none in the past day. He does not sleep. He does not seem alive...except that he keeps screaming.

They watch him as he screams...because they cannot look away. They are afraid he will disappear. They watch him scream and watch him...and even as they regret his situation, a small part of them all rejoices that he is alive. It is a small, furtive part, one hidden, almost guiltily, deep inside because it does not seem that _he_ rejoices. He seems as broken by being found as he must have been by being taken. He is...damaged. He is...different. He is...an animal where once there lived a human being.

They watch him as he screams...but they are not afraid of him. They grieve at the depth of pain manifest by the now-whispered expressions of torment. They want only to stop his pain.

They watch him as he screams...until one of them cannot bear it any longer and takes him in arms desperate to comfort one who cannot be comforted. Still, he screams. Not a single tear falls from eyes that still stare straight ahead. Tears only fall from the eyes of those who live...

...and he seems dead...living but dead...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

There is something different. A sensation of...what...wetness, moisture...coming down from above. What is wet that comes down? There is a word for it. He feels it. He knows what it is...even as he tries to continue screaming. He does not know...but that wetness touches a part of him deep inside, a part that does know, a part that does understand...a part that is alive. It touches that part. It is almost enough for him to try and look...try and turn his head...try to accept what he cannot accept.

Then...then...before he can try again, he begins to fall toward the darkness once more. He cannot fight it, cannot stop it...he can only fall into oblivion...and so he does with one last scream...

...because even though he can see them, he knows they are dead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He awakens...slowly...carefully...as if he were afraid of punishment. His mind crawls tentatively out of the darkness, things brightening gradually as if the world were hooked up to a dimmer switch. He is afraid...and wonders why. He wonders why he is unsure of who he is, of why he feels such pain, of where he is. He knows nothing...only fear and pain, monsters who flit around in his brain like old friends. He knows there are things he should be afraid of, things that should shame him...but he doesn't know what they are.

_Who am I?_ he wonders...and then, he knows...and wonders why he forgot. What happened to make him forget his name...and more than that... That frightens him, too. He tries to figure out where he is without opening his eyes. There is something wrong with him. He knows that much. There is something wrong with his body...something wrong with his mind...but he doesn't know what it is. ...or does he? He can sense that there is someone there, someone speaking in a low voice. If he focuses, he can hear the words...and he wonders why he expected not to be able to understand them.

There is a creak...a wheelchair. _Dad..._

"They're letting him come out of the coma now."

_Coma? Me? Why was I in a coma?_

"Is that wise? Agent Gibbs said that he was..."

_Mom..._

"That was three days ago. The doctors said that he has stabilized. He was dehydrated, half-starved...along with...everything else. They think they can manage it better now...and we're going to have to...make some decisions."

_Dad...what happened? Why are you guys here?_ He wants to know, but he is afraid to show that he is alive...and why is it that he feels such a firm idea that Gibbs is dead?

"I don't like seeing him so still...but I guess it's better than he was. They said they couldn't get him to stop screaming."

_Mom...you sound like you're crying. You never cry._

"I don't know if I'd prefer knowing he was at least alive to seeing him scream." There is a long pause and he feels a hand on his forehead, smoothing his hair. "Did they say anything to you about _why_?"

"Nothing. I don't know if that's because they really have no idea what the purpose was or if it's because they don't want us to know."

He feels a kiss on his forehead. "I hate the thought of what he must have been experiencing...all this time."

_You're going to quote something, Dad. I can feel it coming. What is it going to be?_ He almost smiles, but can't bring himself to reveal his consciousness. He doesn't know why...maybe it's because he's not quite sure of his identity.

"Don't, Sam. Don't quote me something from a dead person...don't give me words from other people about this. I'm not sure I want to know."

That shocks him. His father's quotations are as much a part of life as breathing is. To stop him...that means...something is very wrong. That thought is confirmed by the fact that he hears nothing except for a deep sigh.

"All right, Naomi. No quotation this time."

Another long, long silence.

"I wish he would wake up. I want to know that he's going to be okay."

"He'll be okay."

_What happened to me? Why are you so afraid? Why am I? Why can't I think?_

"I wish I could believe you, Sam...but I'm not sure that... Tim?"

_Tim...she's talking to me. That's who I am. Why don't I know that? ...but I do...I think._

"What is it?"

"I thought he moved...maybe I imagined it."

Tim opened his eyes. Things were so...blurry. He couldn't really see...and he didn't understand what was going on. He blinked...and blinked again. He wanted to talk, but for some reason, he couldn't make himself form the words.

"Tim?"

He stared straight ahead. His eyes wouldn't shift. He wasn't sure why.

"Tim, honey...can you hear me?" Naomi's face shifted into his line of sight. Tim tried to smile...and since he couldn't seem to make himself speak, he did the next best thing, he lifted his hand to her face...just to prove that she was really there. "Tim... let me get your doctor." Her face withdrew.

She was replaced by Sam.

"Tim, how are you feeling?"

_Dad, I'm afraid...but I don't know why._

His fear was in his eyes.

"Don't worry, Tim. We're going to figure all this out...together. Just squeeze my hand. Can you do that?"

Tim could...and he did...but it hurt and he didn't know why.

"Good. Now, I don't want you to worry. No matter what. Things will work out."

Naomi came back.

"Dr. Sakota is on her way, Tim. She can explain things."

_Why can't I talk? Why am I so afraid?_ Tim heard his breath, loud in his ears...and that reminded him of something...what was it? _What is missing?_

"Don't worry, Tim. Just calm down. We'll be okay. You'll be okay."

The door opened and he heard a voice, but he couldn't make his eyes move to see.

"So, he's awake?" The voice was not familiar, vaguely-accented and feminine.

"He's not talking, Dr. Sakota. Why not?"

A face leaned over him. She was middle-aged and pleasant-looking. "Tim, how are you doing?"

_Why are you asking? I can't say anything!_

"Can you understand me?" she asked. "If you can, blink twice."

Relieved, Tim blinked. Twice.

"Okay. Do you remember what happened to you, Tim?"

_What happened? Something bad...but I don't know...why don't I remember?_

"You've been missing for three months. Do you remember that?"

_Missing? What? Three months? How?_

"Your team found you four days ago. You don't remember that?"

Fragments of memory...but they didn't make any sense...they were layered with...with something incomprehensible...and with a lot of pain. Why was there so much pain?

"You _can_ speak, you know, Tim. There is nothing physically preventing you from speech," Dr. Sakota said. "You won't be hurt for it. You aren't in any danger. You can speak."

Tim stared up at her in fear. For some reason, speaking frightened him...moving frightened him. It was terrifying. For some reason, Dr. Sakota seemed to understand...what he did not.

"I know you're afraid, Tim. I know that terrible things happened to you...even if you don't at the moment...that is also completely understandable. Your mind has retreated in an effort to maintain your sanity...but a part of you remembers and that part is what scares you. Believe me: you are safe. No one is going to hurt you. No one will take you away again. You are safe...and no one will hurt you if you speak."

Tim stared at her.

"Do understand me, Tim?" she asked.

Tim blinked. Twice.

"Good. Do you _believe_ me?"

Tim hesitated and she smiled gently.

"Work on that because no one here wants you to hurt anymore. We just want to help you heal."

Her face withdrew and he heard her speak softly, asking his parents to go with her. Then, Naomi's face reappeared.

"Tim, we'll be right back. Don't worry." She kissed his forehead again and reluctantly released his hand.

Tim heard the door close and he was alone...alone with his mind. He knew things...and he knew that he knew them, but he didn't remember them until...until he remembered...and it made no sense. He couldn't think of a past...any past...except that he knew had one...and he knew what happened in that past...but it didn't seem to fit.

_You will not speak!_

It was like a jagged spike through his body and he began to hyperventilate. The fear exploded into full-blown terror.

_You will not look away!_

It was pain and it brought with it images...impossible images...images he could not tell anyone about.

_It is your fault!_

There were no tears. No sound...only breathing...only pain. The door burst open. He trembled, horrified and overwhelmed by fragments he did not really remember.

Arms around him.

"What is it, Tim? What's wrong?"

He grasped the arms. He couldn't identify the voice, who was speaking, but he held the speaker tightly, always staring straight ahead. Suddenly, he felt as though his entire body, not just his mind, was on fire. Still, he made no sound...but his breathing turned into hysterical gasps for air. His body was shaking, with pain, with fear, with...anguish.

Even if he could have spoken, he couldn't have explained what was wrong, couldn't describe the all-consuming agony that engulfed him. It was slowly tearing away his identity, the self he had regained...without knowing that he had once lost it.

"Tim, I'm right here. Remember when I used to drive away the monsters under your bed? When I could banish the nightmares? I'm here, just like I was then. I'm here. I can keep you safe. Don't leave us."

His eyes began to close under the onslaught, but then...then, Tim uttered a word...the third word he had spoken since being found.

"Mama."

He slept in her arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I apologize that I didn't get a chapter up yesterday. My internet has been down since Saturday night and I couldn't update. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 5**

He woke suddenly, full of fear, terrified. The monsters were after him! He trembled and it was so dark. He was afraid of the dark.

He whimpered. "Mama."

Instantly, someone was there...but it wasn't Mama. It was someone else and he was afraid.

"McGee."

It was so dark. Whose was the voice?

"Mama," he whimpered again.

"Where is she?" another voice whispered.

"Sam had to go to the hotel. He can't stay the night in his chair."

He didn't move. Sometimes, the monsters forgot he was there if he stayed very still. Carefully, he pulled the blanket over his head, careful not to move because he knew that he wasn't to move. Moving was wrong. Moving was bad. He wanted Mama. Mama would scare the monsters away.

"McGee. You're all right. It's okay."

The voice was not comforting. There was something wrong with the voice...something about it that frightened him. So he shook beneath the blankets.

Someone touched him...or at least, someone touched the blankets...but again, it wasn't Mama. The monsters weren't going away! ...and he hurt so much. They were hurting him! He was terrified and pulled away from the touch, shaking. Why was it taking so long for Mama to come and save him? Mama always saved him.

It seemed like forever that he hid from the monsters he could hear walking around in the room. He was afraid of the dark and it was stuffy beneath the covers...and there was something sticking out of his hand. He was so afraid...afraid of someone shouting at him, of someone punishing him for disobedience, of...of monsters tearing him apart.

The door opened and in an instant, there was someone at his side...and she knew how to gain admittance. She lifted the edge of the blanket.

"Tim, can I come in?"

"Mama," he said again and reached for her. The blanket fell away and he was safe in Mama's arms. She rocked him in the special way that kept the monsters at bay.

"I've got you, Tim. Don't worry about a thing." But she sounded worried. He kept his eyes closed tight...afraid that he might actually see the monsters...but he held onto her.

He heard her whisper, "He hasn't called me _Mama_ since he was six years old. In fact, he stopped when he turned seven because he said he was too grown up for that."

"It's another defense mechanism," an unfamiliar...and yet familiar voice replied.

Tim didn't understand all this. He was too young, but he didn't worry about that. As long as Mama was there...

"Should we encourage that?"

"Encourage? No. Attack? Absolutely not. Subconsciously, he's trying to find a way to regain normal brain function after being overloaded for three months...as near as we can tell. The pain is as controlled as we can make it...but some of it is in his head, remembered and that can't be drugged away."

Tim was bothered by the conversation because it reminded him of things that told him he was behaving in the wrong way...that there was something wrong with him...not with the world around him.

"Can't we help?" There was that frightening voice again. He huddled closer to Mama.

"Not until he stops being afraid of you...and we won't know why that is until he can talk to us."

"I..." The voice trailed off into a rough silence. That voice didn't usually sound like it was. It was strange and...and wrong...like so much around him.

"Just comfort your son. The safer he feels, the more likely he is to talk to you...and to the rest of us."

There was a long silence, but the other presences in the room didn't leave. They were still there even as Mama continued to rock back and forth, humming softly. Gradually, he began to relax into her arms. The pain didn't go away but she was still there and the monsters weren't after him...which meant that the pain faded somewhat.

"How are you feeling, honey?"

That was always the question.

"I hurt, Mama," he whispered. "Why does it hurt?"

"Some people hurt you, Tim. We're trying to help you get better, but it's going to take a while. Can you be brave for me?"

Mama sounded like she was almost crying.

"I'm brave."

"I know you are."

"Make the monsters go away. They keep hurting me."

"I'm doing my best. The monsters can't get you anymore."

"But I hear them."

"No. No, Tim. Your friends are here, not the monsters. The monsters are gone."

"Promise?"

"I promise. You're safe. No one will hurt you."

"Okay."

"Can you go back to sleep now?"

"I'll try. Stay?"

"Of course. I won't leave you while you need me."

Then, she began humming again, rocking him back and forth to the tune of "Summertime."

He slept.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

A body seemingly too thin to hold the man inside it. Half-healed sores. Welts as evidence of horrible beatings. Burns. Atrophied muscles from three months confined to a metal chair...a metal chair that was used for...but no...not even in their minds could they articulate what had obviously been done to Tim during that time. The ulcerated skin had been treated as aggressively as Tim's weakened body allowed, but the bedsores would take a long time to heal completely. As bad as his body was, his mind was worse and they did not know for certain what had caused it. They had found him in the dark...staring blindly at the wall in front of him. Tim had been terrified of looking at anyone. He had been afraid of the people he had formerly counted as friends. Now...now, he was acting like a six-year-old...a child afraid of the dark.

"He's asleep now," Naomi said into the silence. She carefully lay Tim onto his side. "Thank you for calling me." She wiped tears away.

"I'm sorry."

She looked away from her son and toward the three people in the room.

"Agent Gibbs...this...this is not your fault."

"I wish there was something we could do," Tony whispered.

"There is."

"What's that?"

"You can find the scum who did this to my son and you can make sure they pay for it." Naomi's voice was a whisper but it became rough with anger, a she-bear wanting to protect her cub. "First, he screamed. Then, he wouldn't speak at all. Now...now, he's like a child. I don't know what to expect next. What happened?" she asked. "What happened to my son?"

She looked from Gibbs who was standing nearest the bed to Tony and Ziva, both standing by the door, looking out of place.

"What happened? What could do this to him?"

Ziva cleared a throat that had closed up as she watched Tim cling to his mother. "He...he was tortured, Mrs. McGee. For three months, based on the severity of his injuries and the depth of the bedsores. He was tortured."

"Why? Why would someone do this? What could my son have told them? What was of enough value to...to..." Naomi looked at Tim as he stirred. "...to make him afraid of the monsters again? I thought he had forgotten all about them, just a childhood terror."

"What do you mean?" Gibbs asked. He had hated seeing the fear in Tim's eyes as he had seen first him and then Tony and Ziva.

"When he was young...five, I think...he...Tim witnessed a car accident. One of his close friends had been picked up by his mother and right as they turned out into the street, a drunk driver sped through an intersection and hit their car. Tim was standing right there. He told me that he had seen every single part. What that meant I never knew. He was young enough not to be able to elaborate. He had nightmares...but for some reason, the worst was this fear he suddenly developed of monsters coming after him. He would hide under the covers and I was the only one who could make them go away. That lasted for over a year, nearly two. Then, after his accident at sixteen, I think the nightmares came back, but..." she smiled and smoothed Tim's hair. "...but he was too old to ask for _Mama_ to save him anymore. He knew I couldn't. He had to grow up too fast."

Tim made a soft sound and Naomi touched his damaged hand, the poorly-healed broken pinky obvious even amid the rest of the damage. He subsided.

"What happened that brought them back?"

"We don't know," Gibbs said and the admission obviously hurt. "We don't know why they took McGee and not any of us. We don't know why they wanted him in the first place. We don't know why they held him for so long...and then seem to have abandoned him there. We just don't know. We're not even sure of everything that they did to him. Physically, it's pretty obvious...mentally...we just don't know."

"What will he be like when he wakes up again? I want my son back."

"We want him back too," Tony said softly. "He's been...missing for so long...and I didn't really think he'd be alive."

"I didn't either," Naomi admitted. Then, she took a deep breath and stood up. "I should go. Sam will be worried sick. He told me just to come since it would take too long to get him ready, but I know he wanted to be here."

"We'll stay."

"Maybe he'll be ready to really see you the next time. I don't know." She smiled, kissed Tim once more, and left the room.

"What's more important, Boss?" Tony asked. "Being here or finding those–"

"Being here," Ziva answered quickly. "Right now, we can do nothing. We are not the lead team on the case. No evidence was left behind...except for McGee. He is the only one who can tell us anything."

"They tortured him," Tony said, almost in a whisper. "This is the probie, the geek. They _tortured_ him. He doesn't deserve that...and we don't even know why or what they did."

"We stay," Gibbs said, taking Naomi's seat. "Even if he's afraid of us when he wakes up, he shouldn't wake up alone. No one should be alone in something like this."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

"He said he'd get even, Boss," Tim said worriedly.

"They all say that, Probie," Tony grinned. "That's how we know we've done a good job. A bad guy wants to kill us."

"Really, McGee, have you not ever had someone threaten you?" Ziva asked, sitting down at her desk.

"This was different," Tim insisted. "I could tell."

"How?"

"By...well, I just have a feeling."

Tony chuckled. "Sorry, Probie. You're much too green to be allowed to follow your gut."

"I've been an agent for almost three years, Tony. I'm not that green."

Gibbs had said nothing...until now.

"People often want revenge, McGee. That's nothing," he said finally. "Do you think that he's in a position to _get_ revenge?"

"He's not now...but...well, it's not like we haven't had unexpected perpetrators before. I just have a feeling that this isn't over...like there's something we might have overlooked."

The conversation moved on and although Tim worried about it for a week or so...everyone forgot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Loops...whorls...masses of data, scrolling through his mind...but twisted and confused. He remembers things...good things...bad things...mostly bad things and he shrinks from those memories. He sees those things repeated in his mind, just like he saw them in front of him...just like he _did_ them.

_Who am I?_

Dreams...reality...nightmares...experiences...all of them are mushed together, mixed into one incomprehensible pile. He does not know. ...but he does know...

_Who am I?_

At one moment, he is a child, at another an adult. He is sixteen, feeling the searing heat from the totaled Camaro. He is twelve being bullied by the bigger kids at school. He is an NCIS special agent, still so thrilled with having a badge that he can hardly take his eyes off it. He is afraid of the dark. He is afraid of the monsters who are still tearing him to pieces.

_Who am I?_

He is...he is alive. That is all he knows for certain. He lives. He is in such pain. The pain won't go away, the agony. It feels as though he is still on that chair. ...the chair... Strapped down, unable to move, feeling the pain...seeing it as it runs through his mind.

_Who am I?_

He is a child, watching the cars moving, colliding. He can see each moment, like a stop-motion camera. He can see his friend's face, Jeff's face as he feels the impact.

He is a college student, attending his first class, afraid of getting things wrong. He remembers the monsters in the closet for just a moment before dismissing them as a silly childhood terror.

He is eight, holding his baby sister for the first time, promising her in a whisper which his parents can't hear that the monsters will never get her.

He is twenty-five, getting ready to start work at NCIS. He is nervous, but excited about finally achieving his dream.

_Who am I?_

He is strapped to a chair, feeling the intense pain. It's not enough to kill him...but he wishes it was. It starts with when they broke the pinky finger on his right hand. They break his body first. It's easier than his mind...but his mind follows soon after.

He is broken...every whit. He is broken into pieces. His life is fractured and he does not know how to think anymore. He doesn't know anything because it has all been taken from him and replaced with things that don't _seem_ right but must be...because that's what they tell him...and they are always right.

"McGee, wake up!"

He hears the voice again. He hears the impossible voice and shies away from the possibility of it being true...because he knows what must inevitably follow.

"Wake up! It's just a dream!"

A dream...oh, if only...it's a nightmare. His life is a nightmare.

"I think he's breathing now. Come on, McGee; don't do this again."

His eyes are open. He doesn't remember lifting his lids but he sees them all around him and he panics.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he moans. "You can't be here. You're dead! You're all dead! No!"

One of them...he doesn't want to give them names, doesn't want to think of who they are, what they mean, doesn't want to remember their lives, not when they're already dead...and have died thousands of times over.

One leans in closer. "McGee, we're alive. We're not dead."

"No!" he shrieks and tries to get up, but he finds that he can't lift himself, can't move. _Don't look away._ "No! You're all dead! I won't watch you again! I won't! I won't!"

One of them touches him. _No, don't touch me._ "McGee, we are not dead. We have never been dead. We are alive, as are you."

"Don't you remember? We went to the building on a tip. You waited outside. We went in. ...and then, you disappeared."

He does not cry. He does not want to listen, but his mind is supplying memories that agree with what..._Tony_...with what he is saying...but it doesn't fit with what he _knows_. He knows they are dead and he knows that they have died too many times already.

"No! Please, not again. I can't bear it again. Not again...again...again...again...again...again...again...no more."

One of them..._Gibbs_...tries to touch him again but he pulls away.

"You have to stay dead. You can't come back to life...please, just stay dead this time," he begs. He doesn't wait for a response but instead hides under the covers again, almost wishing for the monsters to come back. He would rather face the pain the monsters bring than face the death of...of his friends...of his friends.

"Please," he whispers from beneath the blankets. The pain is increasing again and he knows that soon they'll be dead.

The door opens. He hears it and hopes that they're leaving...but they're not. Someone else comes in.

"Tim."

_Dad._ "Please, Dad. Make them stay dead. Please, please, please, please."

He reaches a hand out from under the blanket, flailing blindly for his father's hand. He knows it is his dad by the touch, by the feel of the hand. Callouses from the wheelchair. Strong fingers.

"Tim, they're not dead. They never were. Whatever those people told you, they lied. They're not dead."

"Alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead...alive...dead..." He can't explain. He can't speak the right words. He can't stop the pain...and it arcs through him like a jolt of electricity. He screams.

_He can't bear to look. He can't bear to confront what he is seeing. He tries to turn his head, tries to force his eyes away from the sight._

_I told you not to look away!_

_No, please!_

_You are not allowed to speak!_

_No! No!_

_The straps are too strong. He can't get away. The water pours down over him, soaking him...in preparation for what he knows is coming next. _

_He screams._

"Tim!"

He becomes aware again. The blanket is off him. He is soaked in sweat. He is holding his father's hand so tightly that his knuckles are white. He can hear his breath. It is loud...and his lungs ache. His throat aches. He is in pain.

Tim opened his eyes and stared at his father in terror. Naomi was with him.

"Dad..." he whispered.

"I've got you, Tim. You're all right."

For a minute or two, Tim just lay on his side, holding Sam's hand and breathing loudly, almost painfully fast.

Then, he looked at his parents and, trembling with as much fear as pain, he dared to speak.

"They hurt me."

"I know. I know, Tim," Naomi said softly. "They're not going to hurt you again."

Tim almost looked around the room, almost moved his eyes from staring straight ahead like he had been...but he couldn't do it.

"Tim, your friends are here. Do you want to talk to them?"

"They're dead."

"No, they're not. They're alive. I don't know why you believe they are, but they're not. If they were dead, I wouldn't be able to see them, would I?"

Tim looked at his father. "Would you?"

Appeals to logic could not work...not now.

"Trust me, Tim. Your friends are alive and they're worried about you. Will you speak to them?"

"They...they're...alive?" Tim asked.

"Yes. Yes, Tim. They're alive. I promise. Do you believe me?"

Tim didn't want to believe him, didn't want what the consequences would be of his father being right...but Sam didn't lie, not to his son. He never had. When he made a promise, he kept it.

"I believe you," he whispered.

"Will you talk to them?"

Tim nodded slowly. Reluctantly, he acquiesced to Sam's request.

"I'll get them, honey," Naomi said and stood.

"Not all," Tim whispered. "Please, not all."

"Okay. Just one or two...but they're all out there and worried about you."

Tim closed his eyes. "Please, Mama."

"Don't worry, Tim. Only one or two."

Tim just nodded and held Sam's hand even more tightly.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"He's agreed to talk to you," Naomi said to the group in the hallway. "...but not all at once. He's afraid because he thinks you're dead and even though he says he believes us, I'm not sure he does."

"Shouldn't he be _happy_ to see us?" Abby asked. "Since he knows we're okay?"

"Are _you_ happy to see _him_, Abigail?" Ducky asked. "He's alive but are you happy to see him?"

"...no, but I'm relieved he's alive. I don't understand."

"Neither does he, I'm afraid, my dear," Ducky said. "Torture is meant to degrade and destroy one's sense of self. It appears that whoever is responsible for this did their job very well."

"Ducky...why don't you go first," Tony suggested. When everyone looked at him, he shrugged, "Who's less threatening than Ducky? ...and at least he knows what he's talking about."

Ducky gave a half-bow to Tony and looked at Naomi more solemnly. "Would it be amiss if I requested that Ziva accompany me?"

"Me?"

"Ziva?"

"Her?"

"Ziva, I believe you are familiar with torture and its results...are you not?" It was not an accusation, merely a statement of fact. She did not deny it. "Then, I feel that your presence would be useful. You will be aware of his state of mind."

"Torture is tailored to the individual, Ducky. I may not be of any use."

"As his friend and one of the objects which he currently fears, you will be of great use."

"Very well."

Naomi only nodded silently and led them back into the room. Tim looked as bad, or worse than he had before.

_No, not worse,_ Ziva corrected herself. _No one could look worse than he did and not be dead._ She remembered and didn't think she could ever forget bursting into that room, totally dark, furnished only with that diabolical chair in the center, facing the wall perpendicular to the door. Tim had been awake, his eyes fixed resolutely ahead of him. He had been naked with the exception of a pair of ill-fitting disgusting boxers. She could hear his breathing as if he were still making the sound now. How long he'd been sitting there in the dark, no one knew, but it was enough, at first, that they had found him alive...via an anonymous tip that someone answering his description was there. The problem was that no one could have recognized Tim as he was now with how he'd been before his disappearance. He had obviously been nearly starved, beaten, tormented beyond reason. To expect much of him now was ludicrous. To ask _anything_ of him, cruel.

"Timothy, I cannot tell you how relieved we are that you are still with us."

To Ziva's surprise, Tim cracked open his eyes. He didn't shift his gaze from his father, who was directly in front of him, but he appeared to be listening.

"I cannot pretend to understand what you are going through, but I am..."

"Ducky..." Tim whispered, breaking into the awkward monologue.

Ducky walked over beside Sam and crouched down so that Tim could see his face.

"Yes, Timothy?"

"Did you do the autopsies?"

"Autopsies? On whom?"

"On them. They died so many times. You must have. I remember that you did Kate's...and Director Shephard's. Did you?"

"No, Timothy...because they never died. Ziva is here."

"They're always alive...until...until they're dead...again...and again." Tim's expression was...hopeless...but worse than that. Whatever had happened, it had torn his humanity from him, leaving him empty.

Ziva walked over so that Tim could see her and she watched as his eyes were drawn, almost irresistibly to her. It marked the first time he had looked somewhere other than straight ahead...but the sight gave him no pleasure. In fact, the pain in his eyes became a tortured agony.

"I don't want you to die again," he said. There were no tears, but she sensed that he wished he _could_ cry...or that he would have wished that had he been coherent enough to do something like _wish_.

"I have not yet died at all, McGee. I am right here...and I have not stopped living at all." She said the words but even though Tim seemed to be accepting that she was alive, she could see that he accepted that she had also been dead...apparently more than once...and that he was afraid...not _of_ her because he didn't want her dead...but of her death. She reached out to touch him and only withdrew when she saw the look on his face.

"I can't do it again. I can't." Tim faced front again, his eyes glazing over as he stared at Sam. Then, he mumbled, "Don't look away." His eyes began to droop but then, suddenly, they became wide, round...and totally empty. "Don't look away!" he screamed.

Instantly, Sam, who had been keeping quiet while the others were speaking, leaned forward and hugged Tim...who didn't appear to notice it at all.

"I'm here, Tim. You're safe. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

Tim was hyperventilating again, his eyes facing straight in front of him and his body was stiff as a board.

"Please, Tim, please, hear me. Don't leave us...please," Sam said.

It took a couple of minutes but then, Tim's eyes slid closed and he sagged limply in Sam's grip. Naomi and Ducky helped lean him back so that there was no pressure on his sores. Sam stared at his son, eyes glistening with tears. It was in a whisper that he began to speak.

"'There is only one thing that arouses animals more than pleasure, and that is pain. Under torture you are as if under the dominion of those grasses that produce visions. Everything you have heard told, everything you have read returns to your mind, as if you were being transported, not toward heaven, but toward hell...'"

Ducky put a hand on Sam's shoulder and finished out the quotation. "'Under torture you say not only what the inquisitor wants, but also what you imagine might please him, because a bond (this, truly, diabolical) is established between you and him.' Umberto Eco."

Sam nodded. "So...what bond was forged and with whom?"

"I think that for now the only one who can tell us that...can't tell us."

"I do not think they wanted anything from him, any information," Ziva said, softly, staring at what remained of Tim.

"Why do you say that?" Naomi asked.

"Because of how he is right now. He is in no condition to tell someone his own name, let alone anything of value."

"Then, _why_?" Naomi asked. "Why do it?"

"I do not know. I wish I did...but McGee is the only one who knows...so far."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Tim opened his eyes, but he saw nothing. He felt strange, disoriented, confused. _

_Where am I? What's going on?_

_You do not speak!_

_The voice shocked him. It came out of nowhere and had no discernible point of origin._

_Who are you?_

_You do not speak!_

_Tim tried to stand, but he couldn't. He was bound to the chair with straps over his arms, his wrists, his legs, his chest and around his neck. He could turn his head and he could breathe but that was all._

_...and he was wearing very little in the way of clothing, he noticed._

_He didn't know how long he sat in the dark, but he soon learned not to speak. Then, out of nowhere again, without any explanation, a hand grabbed his right hand. Tim stiffened and tried to pull away, but without warning, the hand grabbed his little finger and gave it a vicious twist and a pull. Tim felt the bone snap and he screamed._

_...that was the first time that they poured the water on him..._

_...and he never saw a thing..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_Once upon a time..._

"_He claims that he was framed."_

"_They all do, Probie."_

"_What do you think, Boss?"_

"_Something isn't right."_

"_That's what the evidence shows, Gibbs. Major Mass Spec does not lie."_

"_Is there a way that someone could have...fooled your machines, Abby?"_

"_They're machines, Ziva. They can't be fooled. The person running them can be, but I've run the evidence you guys gave me. This is the guy...so far as the evidence is concerned."_

"_Then, why does it feel wrong?"_

"_Because you never think that people like you can be the bad guys, Probie."_

"_McGee, you figure out what it is that doesn't fit. If you don't find anything by tomorrow, we send it on."_

"_But...Boss..."_

"_I don't like it, either, but Abby's right: the evidence doesn't lie."_

"_What if we're wrong?"_

"_Wouldn't be the first time."_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

His eyes opened...and darted back and forth in nervous agitation. He knew, now, what had to be done. There was only one solution. Only one. There was no choice. He had seen what had to happen...too many times. He had to make this the last time. He couldn't take the pain anymore, the pain in his mind that kept him from thinking.

Ignoring the pain that shot through him, through his body, through his mind...never ceasing, he sat up. He pulled out the IV. It was barely a drop in the ocean of agony in which he dwelled. They were there...sleeping. Sleep...the twin of death. His breath came in short spurts that he tried to control...but there was only one thing he could really control. He knew what had to be done.

He slipped out of bed, nearly collapsing on legs too weak to hold him up. He staggered and reached...

...just as Gibbs' eyes opened, but even though Tim was weak, deranged, he was not fast enough to stop him...

...to stop him from taking his gun.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_First, it had been darkness, absolute and total. Then, he was blinded by lights shining in his eyes. He had no idea how long it lasted but the pain began long before the lights went out. The chair was wired. Tim knew that the first time he felt the electric current. Just enough to cause pain, not enough to cause permanent damage...not right away at any rate. All the while, the blinding light bored into his brain. He hadn't known that continued exposure to light could be so painful. He hadn't grown up in a desert...or on the ocean. He had grown up surrounded by green._

_There was a sound...he wasn't sure what it was at first, but it gradually grew louder and louder. It was a roar in his mind, increasing in frequency and pitch, as well as volume. He could _feel_ it in his bones and his entire body trembled with pain that came from every source. Just at the moment he thought he couldn't bear it any longer...everything stopped. Lights out. Silence. The chair began to cool down. The only sound was his breathing._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee, what are you doing?" Gibbs was alert immediately, but Tim had moved with a speed no one would have thought possible. He was backed into the corner, the gun pointing at Gibbs' head, his hands shaking, blood dripping down one hand where he had pulled out the IV. His eyes were...the only word was tortured. No other description would do.

"It has to stop. It has to. I can't take it anymore," Tim said. His voice was...strained. His whole body trembled.

"What has to stop?" Gibbs asked, trying to keep his voice low, trying to be calming.

"I can't watch you die again. I can't. I won't. It has to stop!" Tim's voice soared from a whisper to a shriek.

Ziva and Tony both woke up with a start.

"McGee!" Tony began to move, but the gun shifted from Gibbs to Tony...and then, to Ziva. Gibbs held up a hand.

"Quiet, DiNozzo."

"You're all dead!" Tim shouted. "You're all dead! I saw you! I _killed_ you!"

"What are you talking about, Tim?" Gibbs asked, his voice still soft.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Then, the movie began. It was so lifelike. It seemed impossible, but it looked real...and horrible. It wasn't long. There was no sound. It didn't need sound. The first time he saw it, Tim was only confused. What was the point of this? Three minutes...loop...three minutes...loop... It went on for ages._

_They didn't feed him. At one point, he made the mistake of saying something about food or water...something...but that was a mistake. Water cascaded down from the ceiling, gallons of it. Then, he was shrieking in agony as the electric current surged through him again. Every inch of him strained to get away from the pain, away from the chair. He couldn't. There was no escape. No escape from any of it. There was no time. There was no life. There was nothing. Only him, the pain...and the movie that looped over and over again. _

_Sometimes, he tried to sleep. On the rare occasions he was allowed to drop off, he was awakened by a jolt of electricity...or someone rebreaking his pinky finger. It was never allowed to heal completely. _

_The first person that he saw at all...in shadow only, a silhouette against the backdrop of the incessant movie. All the blood, all the fire seemed to seep into his brain. The first person had a whip. The second person...or the first person again...used only his fists. The third visit was a whisper in his ear. Over and over again..._

"_It's all your fault..."_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"I killed you! Why won't you just stay dead? I can't keep killing you!" Tim said. Why didn't they understand? Why did they just look at him as if he was crazy? "Just stop hurting me!"

"You never killed us, Tim," Gibbs said. "We're all alive."

"Yes, yes, you are, but you always die again...and I always kill you! I can't do it. I can't keep killing you. I can't keep seeing you die! You have to stop...just die and stay dead!"

"Do you _want_ us to be dead, Tim?" Gibbs asked. He was trying to keep Tim's attention on him only. Tony and Ziva were motionless on his order, but he knew, could sense that they were afraid. This was not someone they could reason with. Both Tony and Ziva were armed...but...shoot Tim? Their friend? Their colleague? The sweet-natured computer geek?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_It's all your fault..."_

_He had tried to deny, tried to explain that he didn't even know what the voice was talking about, but he was so weak, from being beaten, from the electric shock, from fear, from the combination of a million different things. His one weak protest was immediately punished and when his screams died to whimpers of pain, the voice had begun again without any emotion._

"_It's all your fault..."_

_That was the only voice he heard besides the commanding voice that didn't allow him to speak or to move or to close his eyes. It was always whispering. Once it began, it didn't stop. The voice, right beside his ears, as his eyes took in the movie, over and over._

"_It's all your fault..."_

_There were other whispering voices, sinister, evil, painful. It hurt him. The physical pain began to fade, even as the punishments for nothing continued. He saw it. The pain was visual and aural. He was in agony with every moment that the punishments continued. He was no longer watching. He was experiencing. It was not a movie. It was life._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"You're already dead! I've already killed you. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over..." Tim repeated the words without stopping, barely even breathing. He just continued the litany. "You come back to life and I kill you again. Dead and alive. Alive and dead. Always. Always. It never stops...and I can't do it anymore. I can't! I can't! Please, die!"

"Do you _want_ us dead, Tim?" Gibbs asked again.

"You're already dead!" Tim screamed. "People shouldn't die and come back to life!"

"Do you _want_ that? Answer me, McGee!"

"NO!" Tim screamed even louder. "But I've already done it! ...and it has to stop!"

"There are two ways it can stop, you shoot me now, it will be over. I'll never be alive again. ...but if you don't shoot me, I won't die again. You have all the power right now, Tim. It's in your control. It's your choice."

"I don't have a choice! I didn't want you to die! I didn't want to kill you! I did!"

"How do you know you killed us? If you didn't want to do it, why did you?"

"I saw it!"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_In silence, Tim picked up the gun. There was no sound as he pulled back the slide and checked for ammunition. He walked up to Gibbs and pulled the trigger, shooting him in the face three times. Then, he turned to Tony and shot him in the neck four times. Ziva was last. She got the rest of the clip, except for one...right in the heart. Blood spurted from each entrance wound and the bodies fell to the ground in slow motion. There was no sound as he stared at each of them. Then, he turned the gun around to himself._

_There was a jolt and the movie looped._

_Each jolt swirled in his head, melting down his rational thought into nothing. He had no idea how long he had been there. He began to forget that he had ever _not_ been there. All that existed was the pain, the chair...and him, killing his friends over and over again. He knew he had and he knew he would do it again and he would feel the pain. It never came at the same moment. Sometimes, right at the beginning when he picked up the gun. Sometimes, the pain was constant throughout with extra painful surges with each bullet._

_The movie looped._

"_There's no way to stop it...only by them being dead."_

_The movie looped._

"_It's your fault."_

_The movie looped._

"_You killed them."_

_The movie looped._

"_You have to do it."_

_The movie looped._

"_Death is the only end."_

_The movie looped._

"_They all are dead."_

_The movie looped._

"_It's all your fault."_

_The movie looped._

"_It's all your fault."_

_The movie looped._

"_It's all your fault."_

_The movie looped._

_It's all my fault._

_The movie looped._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Where did you see it?" Ziva asked, speaking for the first time. Her voice was also soft. She ignored Gibbs' signal to stay quiet. "Where did you see yourself kill us?"

Tim stared at her, the gun swinging from Gibbs' face to her heart. He didn't seem to understand. His eyes showed a glimmer of confusion rather than insanity.

"You saw it, Tim. You _saw_ it. You didn't _do_ it. You saw it out in front of you, yes? In front."

"In front," Tim whispered, although it was questionable as to whether or not he was agreeing. He sagged against the wall for a moment, looking as though he was going to fall. Tony took an involuntary step toward him and the gun swung from Ziva to him. Tim pushed himself up again.

"Yes, in front. On a screen? It was a movie?"

Tim stared at Ziva once more, gun swinging back to her, breathing shallowly, obviously in a lot of pain.

"Were you _holding_ a gun, Tim?" Gibbs asked. "Or did you _see_ yourself holding a gun?"

Tim's eyes...and the gun...swung back to Gibbs. His mouth was moving but he made no sound.

"Come on, Probie," Tony said and tried not to react as the gun swung to him. It was just wrong for Tim to be threatening him with a gun. "You're a freaking genius! Think!"

"It has to stop," Tim whispered. "It has to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop..." His voice began to raise in volume again.

"It won't stop if you shoot us," Gibbs said, taking control again...and attracting the gun to him once more. "Tim, it won't stop. That will _not_ stop it. All the times you saw us die, we were alive again. Leave us alive. That will stop it."

"Stop...stop...stop...stop..." Tim looked at Gibbs. He looked at Tony, at Ziva.

"You don't want us to die, do you, Probie?"

The gun swung back to Tony. "You... You're...dead...now."

"No, I'm not. I wasn't dead yesterday or last week or any other time. I've been alive my whole life." At any other time, that statement would have been ridiculous, but now...it was filled with desperation to get Tim to see reality, to reconnect with the world around him.

"I killed you," Tim said, but he seemed more uncertain.

"No, you didn't," Tony said. "No, McGee. You never killed me. Not once in all the years we've known each other."

"I shot you. In the neck. Again and again."

"No."

Tim pointed the gun at Ziva. "I shot you in the heart."

"No, Tim. Not ever. You would not do that."

"I saw it."

"But you did not _do_ it."

Tim pointed the gun at Gibbs. "I couldn't even see your face from the blood."

"You didn't shoot me, Tim. You didn't shoot any of us."

The gun was shaking. No one dared move. The gun began to turn.

_It's all my fault..._

_It's all my fault..._

_It's all my fault..._

_It's all my fault..._

_It's all my fault..._

_It's all my fault..._

_It's all my fault..._

"No! Tim! No!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Gibbs didn't know how he made it to Tim as quickly as he did. Perhaps it was the same mechanism that had allowed Tim to grab Gibbs' gun. All he knew was that he had launched himself across the intervening space before Tim finished turning the gun toward his own face. He grabbed it and forced it away, toward the bed. Tim began screaming as if Gibbs was torturing him anew. He fought with a strength belied by his emaciated body. He fought to keep the gun, to fire it, to shoot...someone.

The gun went off, roaring loudly in the confines of the room. Shrieking in agony, Tim's back arched and the gun fell from his grasp. Gibbs wasn't sure where the gun had been pointing when Tim succeeded in pulling the trigger, but as Tim continued to scream, he held him in his arms, praying that whatever had just happened wasn't going to break Tim's mind even further.

Then, through the incessant screaming, Gibbs heard another sound.

"Tony!"

He looked up from Tim and across the room. Tony was on the floor, face white, a spreading red stain about midway between his shoulder and his neck. Ziva was trying to stem the tide of blood with her jacket. Tony's eyes were closed and he was very still.

In his mind, Gibbs was filled chaotic indecision. Tim was still shrieking as if he was dying. Tony might really _be_ dying and although someone should be getting to them soon, would it be soon enough? Could he leave Tim on the floor and help Tony? Who needed the help more? It was a question he couldn't answer in his mind.

Thankfully, his indecision was ended by the door bursting open. Hospital security came in first, took in the scene and seemed to be as undecided as Gibbs himself was. That helped him get back into his usual leadership role.

"You," he said, pointing to one of them, "get help. Tony has been shot. You, get Dr. Sakota." They didn't start moving fast enough. "Now!"

That spurred them into motion. The one he'd told to get help went into the room further and joined Ziva beside Tony. Behind him came a team of doctors, ready for whatever trauma had just occurred. The other disappeared into the hallway. As much as Gibbs wanted to make sure Tony was okay, he knew he couldn't leave Tim who was still screaming, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Come on, Tim," he whispered, not even knowing what he was asking Tim to do, just knowing that he hated being so helpless, so torn.

Tony was rushed out. Ziva hesitated, looking at Gibbs and only following when he jerked his head for her to go. Dr. Sakota managed, somehow, to get around all the chaos and join Gibbs, kneeling beside him. She took one look at Tim, at his vitals, and then, stood up.

"Don't take him away yet," he said. "Please." He knew he was begging, genuinely begging. It was against his grain but this was a unique circumstance. "Just let me try to calm him down."

Dr. Sakota looked as though she would insist, but then, unexpectedly, she nodded. "Very well. I'll contact his parents. He's lost in his mind right now. Nothing I can do will bring him out. But he does know you, afraid as he might be. Talk to him until his family comes. We can't leave him here. Once he's calmer, we'll have to transfer him to the secure wing. He can be treated there, but at this point, he has proven himself a danger to himself _and_ others."

Gibbs couldn't even bring himself to disagree. She left, but Gibbs could see a couple of nurses standing outside the door...obviously waiting. He focused on Tim, still screaming, still acting as though he was being torn limb from limb.

"Tim..." Gibbs couldn't think of anything to say, not now.

"It hurts!" Tim shrieked.

For whatever reason, that sparked a paternal feeling in him. He held Tim closer. "I know it hurts, Tim. I know. I'm sorry I can't help that. I wish I could, but I can't reach you in there. I'm stuck out here, watching you...and that hurts _me. _There's no one hurting you out here...it's all in your head. I know you probably are hurting, but...most of it is you...remembering. Memories can hurt more than wounds. I know that...but that's...when they say that words can't hurt, they lie. Words do hurt...but you can make it, Tim. You can. I know you can. You're about the strongest person I know." Gibbs thought this might have been the longest speech he'd ever made. "If anyone can beat this, can get past what was done to you...you're the one who can do it."

Finally, Tim stopped writhing. His screams faded to soft whimpers, interrupted by loud anguished gasps for air. Gibbs held him and unconsciously began rocking Tim back and forth.

"I-I-I...c-c-can't, B-Boss." The words were so shaky, so broken that Gibbs almost didn't understand him.

Tim was looking up at Gibbs, actually looking at him, eyes filled with agony, with fear...but also with more awareness than had been in his eyes in the two weeks since they'd found him.

"I...k-k-k-killed y-you."

"No. You didn't. You only thought you did. I promise you didn't. Not once." Gibbs held back that he _had_ shot Tony. That wouldn't help him at any point, even if he was completely in command of himself.

"W-W-W-Why m-m-me?" he asked.

"I don't know, Tim. I wish I did. I don't. You're the best of us."

"B-B-Broken."

"Not permanently."

"Hurts," he whimpered.

"What hurts?" Gibbs asked, realizing that he'd never asked before.

"Mind. Pain...in my...h-h-head. Inside."

"Memories," Gibbs said, softly.

"Too...m-m-m-much...p-p-pain. C-C-Can't..."

"Don't try right now, Tim. Just focus on living. We won't leave you alone. We won't make you deal with this alone. We'll help. All of us."

"D-D-D-Dead..."

"No." Gibbs took a deep breath. "They're going to move you to another room, okay?"

"D-Don't m-move. N-N-Not al-llowed."

"It's okay. They won't hurt you. No one will hurt you."

"Hurt."

"I know you do, but they won't make it worse." _Please, don't let me be lying._

The doorway was suddenly crowded with people. Sam, Naomi and Dr. Sakota came into the room. Dr. Sakota had obviously been telling them what was going on because they managed to hide their shock very well.

"Tim, your parents are here," Gibbs whispered and then gestured for them to come closer.

Tim didn't move to protest or try and get closer. He just lay where he was on the floor, half in Gibbs' lap. Naomi knelt beside Gibbs and gathered Tim in her arms.

"I've got you, honey. I've got you. You're okay."

Tim relaxed against Naomi as he had not done with Gibbs. "Mama. M-M-Monsters."

"I'll keep them away from you, Tim." She helped the staff get Tim onto a gurney. Giving one last look at Gibbs who was still on the floor, she smiled, nodded and brushed away a few errant tears. Then, she followed them out of the room. Sam rolled over to Gibbs and held out a hand.

"Come on, Agent Gibbs, I'm paralyzed, but I have a low center of gravity." His mouth quirked in a smile he obviously didn't feel. Gibbs took his hand and was surprised by the strength with which Sam pulled him up.

"Thanks, Mr. McGee."

"Eh, call me Sam. Might as well, all things considered." He rolled to where Tony had lay. "What happened in here, Agent Gibbs?"

"Tim was...confused."

"That's putting it mildly, I'd guess. Don't sugarcoat it, Agent Gibbs. If I am going to be of any use to my son, I need to know." Sam skewered Gibbs with a stare that was probably very effective on his students. No lying allowed.

"He thought that he had to kill us all...to stop us from dying. He got my gun and was going to shoot us. We confused him enough that he couldn't decide what was right and so he was going to kill himself. I stopped him, but the gun went off...and it hit one of my agents."

"Is he all right?" Sam asked, appalled.

"I hope so. I haven't had a chance to find out yet. I had to stay with Tim."

"Thank you for that."

"I should go and check on him now, actually...now that someone else is here for Tim."

"Let me roll with you. I'd like to know what my son managed to do."

Gibbs nodded and walked along side Sam as he wheeled himself through the hallways.

"I didn't want him to do this job, you know," Sam said into the silence.

"What?"

"I didn't want Tim to be a police officer...in any way, shape, or form. I wanted him to be...a teacher or a writer or computer...person, whatever those people are called. I never thought that my boy would be strong enough to do a job like this." Sam stared straight ahead as they moved down the hall. Gibbs could see elements of Tim in the Sam's rigid profile...but in personality, he was more like Naomi.

"He's good at it," Gibbs said.

"Yes, he is. That's why I didn't ever try to talk him out of it. I've never seen him more determined than he was when he told us what he was going to do." Sam stopped suddenly and looked up at Gibbs. "My son wanted nothing more than to serve his country in whatever manner he could. He was willing to give his life if it was called for. I...I don't...I'm not giving up on him, Agent Gibbs, but...I don't think he would want to live like this for the rest of his life. He never thought that his mind would be broken."

"He won't be like this for the rest of his life. McGee is strong enough to make his way back."

"You sound very confident."

"I refuse to believe otherwise."

Sam smiled. "You sound like Tim...or maybe Tim sounds like you. This firm belief that _you_ are right and no matter what the evidence says...you are still right."

"Evidence..." Gibbs paused in the hall.

"What?"

"A memory." It slipped from his grasp, but hung tantalizingly out of reach. "It'll come." They had reached the nurses' station. "My agent was brought here. Gunshot wound? Tony DiNozzo."

"Oh, yes. He's in surgery right now. The bullet was lodged in his clavicle. They're removing it."

"Will he be all right?"

"He should be."

Gibbs nodded and looked over toward the waiting room. Ziva was sitting, looking strangely forlorn. He looked at Sam who seemed to be channeling Tim and was crying.

"Mr. McGee?"

"My wife should have come down here. She's the one who doesn't like to cry. It's a sign of weakness. People don't take a weeping woman seriously...or so she says. I've never made that mistake. She would have been a frightening lawyer had she not decided that raising Tim was more important." Sam smiled. "I don't think Tim could have made it, knowing that he had killed a teammate."

"I don't think you should tell him. He doesn't know that he hit Tony at all. I'd like to leave it that way for a while. In his current state, he probably won't notice that Tony isn't there."

Sam nodded. "I agree. I'll go up now. Naomi should know."

"What about Sarah?"

"We made her go and get some sleep. I didn't want to wake her and add another emotional person to the mix. She takes after me...although she tries to pretend she doesn't." Sam sighed. "Thank you, Agent Gibbs. Thank you for stopping him...and thank you for having faith in him."

"Thank you for not blaming us."

"Blame is a nasty habit. It's too easy to fall into it when one doesn't want to really think about what has happened. You didn't torture him. You didn't kidnap him. I'm almost overcome that you found him and that you haven't abandoned him in his extremity." Sam wheeled around rather quickly and rolled away.

Gibbs looked after him for a long moment before walking over to Ziva and sitting down beside her.

"Did you call Abby or Ducky?"

She shook her head. "What good would that do? Abby would panic and Ducky cannot do anything except try to comfort people in a situation that is devoid of the possibility of comfort. I chose simply to wait."

"I'm afraid, too, Ziva."

Ziva didn't cry, but her posture became just a bit too straight to be natural and she wouldn't look at him. They didn't speak to each other or to anyone else until the doctor came out an hour later.

"Officer David?"

Ziva leapt to her feet in an instant, Gibbs right beside her.

"Is he all right?" she asked.

"He's in recovery. We were able to remove the bullet without complications. He's going to be in a sling for about a month, but the clavicle should heal completely, barring any unforseen problems."

"Can we see him?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes, if you'll follow me. He'll still be out of it for a while, but you're welcome to wait."

Gibbs and Ziva went with the doctor cheering inside that at least one thing had gone right. There were so many things that were wrong...and it could have been so much worse...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They wanted to put him into restraints, but Naomi refused to allow it, and Dr. Sakota agreed that based on his history, even the loosest restraint would be likely to send him into a blind panic. Instead, Naomi promised to stay and that she would call for help if it was needed, although she plainly didn't believe that there would be any call for it.

When Sam arrived she was sitting on the bed beside Tim, her arms around him, holding him tightly as he lay limp and empty.

"Any change?" Sam asked.

She shook her head. "No, but he's in there. My son is in there. I know it. We just have to be patient."

Sam rolled over beside the bed and took one of Tim's hands, thinking about the stroke of luck that had prevented his son from becoming a murderer, even by accident. As he stared into Tim's empty eyes, he was surprised by a flicker of life.

"L-Love you...Dad," he said.

"I love you, Tim. You just rest and get better, okay?"

Tim didn't speak again, but he leaned more against Naomi and squeezed Sam's hand. He fell asleep that way, surrounded by the two people who had always kept him safe.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

"_Boss?"_

"_What is it now, McGee?"_

"_Well, I..."_

"_What?"_

"_Probie's seeing things again."_

"_No, I'm not. I just have a bad feeling is all."_

"_About what?"_

"_I'm not sure, Boss, to be honest. I just have a feeling that things are...not right. This tip...why now? Why us? We're not lead on this case. The FBI is. It just doesn't feel right. I feel like we're missing something obvious."_

"_Well, we're here, McGee. You be our eyes out here. See what you can see. We'll check inside."_

_Tim watched them go, feeling unaccountably worried. There was something wrong...and it made him nervous, anxious for the safety of his team. _

_He looked around. Why was this place so empty? Then, his feeling got worse than ever. It was like in all those horror movies that Tony watched. Someone was there, watching him. Tim turned._

_...but he never made it all the way around._


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"I'm not dying, am I?" Tony asked groggily as his eyes opened.

"No!" Ziva said firmly.

"Then, why are you both hovering over me like I'm on my deathbed?"

"McGee shot you, Tony. Of course, we would be worried."

"Is McGee okay?" Tony asked.

"Yes...well, no, but he is not dead, nor is he shot."

Tony struggled for a more coherent grasp on consciousness. "What happened?"

Gibbs shrugged with a nonchalance he didn't feel. "The gun went off. I don't think McGee was actually aiming at you, but he hit you nonetheless."

"How bad?"

"You'll be riding a desk for about a month. The bullet lodged in your clavicle."

"Great. That's just great," Tony muttered, but then, he looked up with concern. "You're not going to tell him, are you?"

"Not now."

"Not ever," Tony said. "McGee doesn't need to know something like that."

"You would prefer to have us lie to him?" Ziva asked.

"Yes!"

"And have someone, someday accidentally mention that you were doing very well considering what happened?"

Tony sagged lower on the bed. "You're probably right. The look on his face...and what he believed. How would they do that to him?"

"I would guess that they had a movie or some other sort of representation of what he kept telling us. They would have reinforced its reality through use of pain. He was dehydrated and starved when we found him. That means they probably gave him just enough food and water to keep him from dying, but no more. He would have been weak, disoriented, confused and the only reality would have been that he killed us...and he would have received that over and over for three months." Ziva's clinical description would have sounded cold and heartless to anyone else, but after so many years working with her, they knew why she spoke that way.

"So...in other words..." Tony began.

"In other words," Gibbs broke in, "you should go back to sleep. If we're going to figure this out, it's not going to be while you're laying here recovering from friendly fire. Just rest, Tony. We have time."

"What's he going to do next, Boss?" Tony asked, his eyes heavily-lidded.

"Nothing for a while. He's been moved to the secure wing for his safety...and ours. His parents are with him. We'll check on him later."

"So...this isn't the end of it."

"Not by a long shot," Ziva said.

"You would get that one right," Tony mumbled before dropping off to sleep once more.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

_His name had once been Gary, very innocuous...almost dull...which was why he no longer used it. He no longer used a name at all. People with names could be understood, categorized. A smile crept across his face. He would not be held to others' perceptions. He would _choose_ what people's perceptions were. It was his choice, not theirs. They didn't get a choice. He was the only one who got to choose._

_A woman walked by him, tall and blonde, accompanied by a man who was obviously her boyfriend. The attention he lavished on her was too much for a husband. He was not in a happy mood at the moment. The smile on the watcher's face might have been pleasant except that it didn't reach his eyes which were narrowed, cold and cruel. People who met those eyes walked away frightened._

_...and he made his next choice..._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

He opened his eyes, looking around at his surroundings. It was different...a different room. What had happened?

_Where am I?_

Immediately, he began to panic, swallowing in between frightened breaths. He felt sick, afraid...but mostly sick. He was so frightened, so panicked that he couldn't do anything but breathe...and swallow...

He had nothing in his stomach. They weren't letting him eat just yet, but he began to dry heave over the edge of the bed, which meant that he began to have trouble breathing and the only sound he made was a series of gasps as he gagged and choked on his fear.

"Tim, honey, what's wrong?"

There were arms around him, appearing out of nowhere.

_...out of nowhere..._

He began to fight the arms, not really hearing the voice, knowing only that the voice appeared out of nowhere and brought pain.

"No, no, no, no, no, no..." he shouted at the voice. He didn't see who it was, didn't hear who it was, didn't even recognize the gentleness of the arms. In his blind terror, he couldn't think beyond the pain, beyond the memory of the pain...and the certainty of more pain coming.

"Tim, please!"

Still, he fought. He pushed at the arms, pushed and fought without holding back. It was only the fact that he was still so weak that he didn't immediately overpower the person holding him.

"Tim! Look at me!"

Other hands grabbed his arms, dragging him back to the bed. He didn't even remember getting off it. He could hear someone sobbing...who was it?

"No, please! That's not necessary. Please, don't!"

He felt a strap around his left wrist...then, around his right...and he began to scream, knowing that the pain would be coming, knowing that he'd kill his friends again. All those things happened...all of them...

"Let my son go!"

_Son... _The word lit a fire in his brain. His eyes opened...he didn't remember closing them. Two men were tightening the restraints on his arms and legs. For a brief moment, he did try to calm down, a small part of his brain insisting that this wasn't going to hurt him...but he couldn't stay calm. He couldn't think beyond the fact that he was trapped again.

"Keep the monsters away! Mama! Help me!" he cried. "Mama! It hurts! Mama!"

He could hear the sobbing pleas, but his own screaming was too loud for him to discern the words being spoken...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Then, abruptly, it was quiet. He had stopped screaming, although he didn't know why, or when, he had. He stared up at the ceiling, refusing to move his eyes.

_Don't look away._

"Tim? Can you hear me?"

He focused on his breathing. It wasn't loud, a bit too fast maybe, but not loud.

_I'm not afraid?_

"Tim? Honey? Please, can you hear me?"

_Mom...she's crying. Mom doesn't cry._

"Look at me, Tim."

It took every ounce of will he had to obey that request. It was agony to move his head, to turn it away from the ceiling...to look away when everything in his head was screaming at him that he couldn't do that. It was so hard, but it was Mom. He had to, had to find out why she was crying.

Slowly, he moved his head, expecting to be beaten, to be yelled at, to be hurt...and yet, nothing happened. He was shocked. Nothing happened when he moved his head. It almost distracted him from the reason he was moving his head in the first place...but then...

"Mom," he whispered...he was so tired, but he didn't know why. "Mom, what happened?"

There was a scratch on her face, closed with a small butterfly bandage. He tried to reach for her...but... He stared down at his hand. There was a restraint on his wrist. He looked at it and heard his breathing become louder.

"No, Tim. Don't. Don't. It's okay. Don't look there. Look at me."

Tim wanted to, wanted to look at something other than that horror that was holding him down...but he couldn't move his head. He couldn't look anywhere else. A hand took a hold of his chin and lifted his head.

Tim looked into his mother's eyes.

"Look at me, Tim. Don't look down there. Just look at me."

"I...I'm...why...what did..." He couldn't speak normally or even clearly.

"There was a misunderstanding, Tim. That's all. You're not in any danger. Understand? You were afraid is all, and you reacted to that fear in the only way you knew how."

Then, he remembered...like watching a movie...what had happened just a few hours ago.

_What happened between?_ There was no memory of it.

"I did that...I did that...to you! I hurt you!" He was horrified. Never in his whole life did he remember hurting his mother.

"No. No, Tim. It was an accident is all."

"I...I hurt you, Mom! That's why..." His eyes began to drop, but the hand under his chin wouldn't let him.

"You didn't. It was an accident."

"That was me," he said. "I...I..." Fragments of memories surged and ebbed in his head. Killing his team, his friends...waking up in a chair...watching himself...being told that what he remembered was wrong. "What's...wrong with...with me?"

Naomi took his hand and squeezed it tightly. "You were hurt, Tim. You were hurt so badly that you have to take time to heal. We're here to help you. So don't worry."

Voices in his head...no choices...no hope...no chance to get away. Only death...

"Tim!"

He looked at her and it took a moment for him to recognize who she was.

"Mom."

"We're here. You won't be left alone. You won't be in danger. Please, trust me."

He knew that he should be able to, should be able to trust his mother, that he always had trusted her before, but there was nothing in his mind that allowed for it. The only thing he remembered right now was that people hurt him.

"I...I can't." He hated seeing the hurt in her eyes. It was frightening... He had hurt her.

_I hurt Mom. I hurt Mom._

It was wrong. Why did he have to hurt everyone...kill everyone? He leaned back in the bed, pressing himself into the mattress, away from Naomi, falling headlong into a blind panic. In this one instance, that same small part of his mind that knew what was going on, that understood why he was reacting in the way he was, that part knew it was a good thing he was restrained. That part of him knew what he would have tried to do to himself had he been free to move. The dominant part, however, plunged into the irrational terror that he connected with pain and injury.

He seemed to feel the electricity surging through him again and he became completely stiff, back arched, hands clenched into fists so tight that the nails broke through the skin...short as they were.

_The surge left him breathless, aching, tears pouring down his cheeks as his body trembled in reaction to the unexpected attack. For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, how to even keep his heart beating...and he wasn't sure he wanted to._

"Tim, come out of it, please. Come on, Tim. Fight it!"

_Weak. Weakness is not tolerated. You do not cry._

"Please...why are you doing this to me?" he screamed.

_You do not ask questions. You do not speak. Disobedience is not tolerated._

_Again, the current rushed through him. Every nerve was on fire...and then, it was gone. He tried to stop the tears, but he couldn't, couldn't fight the reaction to the pain._

_Tears..._

"No! Please! No!"

"Tim, it's not happening."

_Another one...longer this time. It seemed to last forever and even the pain from his recently rebroken finger was subsumed beneath the waves of agony which accompanied each crest of power. Then, it was gone. Again, he was left trembling in agony. The pain didn't fade right away and he was barely recovered when it happened again._

"I didn't cry! I didn't cry! Stop!"

"Take these things off him or I'm going to do it for you!"

"I don't have authori–"

"You want authorization? This my authorization. My son thinks he's being tortured. I can't comfort him if he's tied down like an animal. I am his mother. That's all the authorization you should need."

_No speaking. Do not look away._

_It's all your fault._

_Only death will save you...and it won't come._

_Do not speak._

_He didn't speak, but he screamed...and screamed. He screamed until his voice was gone...even after the pain stopped...because it didn't really stop. It couldn't. The pain would never ever stop._

"I am an NCIS special agent. I'm telling you to take off those restraints or get out of my way."

Arms...soft, gentle...at first, unfamiliar...like an embrace of pure light.

"Tim, it's okay. It's okay. You're safe. Oh, please...Tim, please. Believe me. You're safe."

The restraints fell away...gone as if they'd never been. The only sound in the room was his own breathing...and the breathing of some other people. He could hear them, even if he didn't see them...and a heartbeat, close by him. Someone was alive near him. He opened his eyes (again...when had they closed?) and looked straight ahead...and he saw an arm...and beyond the arm, he saw...

"Boss." His voice was so soft that he wasn't even sure _he_ had heard it.

"It's all right, Tim."

He felt the voice as much as heard it, the vibrations in his mother's chest as she spoke.

"Mom," he said, just loudly enough for her to hear him. She leaned back enough to look into his eyes...and he saw the cut on her face... he reached up and touched it. "I did that."

"Yes," she said. No condemnation. No censure. Just a simple acknowledgment of what had happened.

"I'm sorry."

Naomi leaned over and kissed his forehead, smoothing away his sweaty hair. "I forgive you."

"I'm tired."

"Then, sleep. We'll be here."

Tim leaned up just a little and saw Gibbs standing there.

"Boss?"

"We're all still alive, McGee," he said and smiled a little.

"I didn't kill you."

"No. You didn't kill any of us. Sleep, McGee. You're all right."

Safe. Could he really be safe now? Was it possible?

"He's right, Tim. You're safe. Sleep."

"Mom?"

"What is it?"

"Stay?"

"Of course."

Whether he was safe or not, he believed that she would stay, that she would protect him. He slipped slowly away into a sleep that he partly feared would be filled with too many memories...


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Agent Gibbs! I didn't...expect you here. I thought you'd be..." Agent Adam Saunders trailed off awkwardly. He was the probie and still at the stage of being easily intimidated.

"Have you found anything yet?"

"Um...I'm not sure. Agent Lovitz just went down to talk to Abby. She said she might have pulled something...a fingerprint or a chemical or something."

"That's not very specific."

"_She_ wasn't very specific," Geri Weaver corrected. She was Lovitz' senior agent and had never been intimidated by Gibbs. "You know how Abby gets when she's found something. She doesn't like to do it over the phone. Lara went down with Lovitz about five minutes ago. We've been tracking down the rental information on that building. Someone was paying for it...but so far we've hit nothing."

"Thanks." Gibbs headed for the elevator.

"Agent Gibbs?"

He stopped and looked back at Adam.

"How is McGee doing?"

"He's alive...and occasionally he's even aware of reality...but that's rare."

"We're all praying for him," Geri said.

Gibbs nodded and walked to the elevator.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Hey, Gibbs," Abby said, with a shadow of her former sparkle. "You always know when I have something. How do you do it?"

"Jethro, any good news?" Agent Lovitz asked.

"Not much, Robert. What about you?"

"Abby was just about to tell us. I hope it's something...there's been nothing to give us a clue as to who took Agent McGee or why."

"The chair has a single partial print. It must have been an accident. I've got a match...but it's from prints taken thirty years ago. They belong to a man by the name of Gary Daniel Egner. The problem is that he hasn't shown up anywhere since he was pulled over for joyriding at age eighteen. He was in the foster care system and then seems to have disappeared."

"What about his family?"

"He was taken from his mom on charges of neglect. She was a drug addict, OD-ed two years later. No other family on record. He's never been on the grid since that one arrest. No credit cards, no driver's license, not even a parking ticket. The guy doesn't seem to exist anymore."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Swirling blackness...blank spaces...darkness...and lacing it all...pain. Neverending pain. Only the pain is there all the time. He is shaking...shaking with pain...with the cold that he only notices in the rare quiet moments. The cold from the water that cascades over his body...heralding another bout, another period of agony. ...but he doesn't cry. Tears are not allowed. Tears are punished. They do not heal. They injure. No tears...only the water coming down...only the pain..._

"Timmy? Timmy? It's Sarah. Can you hear me?"

The voice was young...nervous...afraid. He opened his eyes, staring straight ahead. The lights were dim but by no means out. He was not restrained...but he was shaking uncontrollably.

"Tim? Should I call the doctor?"

He knew the voice. He did. He was sure of it. He must.

"I don't know what to do! I don't want to leave you alone, but Tim. I'm afraid. What's wrong?"

"S-Sarah?"

"Yes, Tim. I'm here."

"C-Cold. W-Water...too much w-w-water. Cold."

He felt the presence withdrawing.

"S-Sarah?"

"I'm not leaving, Tim. I'm just going to the door."

"Cold. Cold."

He heard her voice, distant and soft, almost unintelligible...but he didn't pay a whole lot of attention. He was too cold.

"Officer David?"

"What's wrong, Sarah?"

"I'm...I'm not sure. My brother...he says he's cold and wet, but...well, he's not wet. Should I get the doctor?"

"No."

"What do I do?"

"I will show you." The voices came nearer. "McGee, I am going to touch you, is that all right?"

"Ziva?"

"Yes."

"N-N-Not dead?"

"No."

Arms, warm arms around him...like fire...only soft. He didn't speak. Ziva didn't either...nor did Sarah. _My sister..._ He remembered, knew who she was.

"Are you still cold, McGee?"

"Little."

"You see Sarah?"

"No."

"Then, look at her."

"Don't look away," he whispered.

"You may look wherever you wish. No one will hurt you."

He wasn't sure he believed her...but he decided to look anyway. It was hard, but not as hard as last time. He moved his eyes, his head, and looked. Nothing happened. Sarah was standing near him, looking nervous and concerned.

"Do you see her?"

"Yes."

"I have to leave, but she'll hold you until you get warm again."

Sarah smiled and nodded...but she still looked nervous. Slowly, she walked to him and as Ziva slipped away, she put her arms around Tim and held him close. Again, Tim didn't speak and didn't notice when Ziva left the room. Sarah didn't speak either, not for a long time. Tim didn't sleep, but as the minutes passed, he began to relax, just a little. Sarah wasn't as good as Mom but she was comforting nevertheless.

"Are you still cold, Tim?" she asked an hour later.

"No."

"Do you want to sleep?"

"Dreams. Bad dreams." Tim tried to explain why he didn't want to sleep, why it frightened him, why he was afraid to be awake, but he couldn't. The only words he could use sounded like those of a child, and he knew it. "I'm afraid of the monsters."

Sarah didn't laugh, didn't tease him for it. Instead, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I'll keep the monsters away this time, Tim."

A memory, a real memory from over ten years ago welled up in his mind.

"_Tim? What's wrong?"_

_Tim tried to hide his face in the shadows of his room. He had not meant to let anyone hear him crying. No one could help this. He was just being a baby._

"_Tim?" Sarah asked again and she came into the room._

"_Go away, Sarah. You're supposed to be in bed."_

_She was almost nine, and she had watched Tim recovering from the car accident, knowing that more was bothering him than just his leg. She didn't understand all the nuances, but she knew he was afraid._

"_So? Mom's with Dad. They won't know unless you tell them."_

"_What do you want?"_

"_What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing."_

"_You're lying, Timmy. Why?" She climbed onto the bed, carefully avoiding his still-weak leg. "Tell me. I won't laugh."_

"_You will...because everyone would."_

"_No, I won't! Are you having bad dreams? Are you afraid?"_

_Tim was quiet for a long time. He could see Sarah's eager young face, lit up by the light from the hallway. He felt so old...and yet so young at the same time._

_Finally, he told her. "The monsters are back."_

_Sarah knew about the monsters. She had dreams sometimes and Tim had told her that those were just monsters trying to scare her and that he would keep them away. She didn't laugh. Instead, she clambered over beside him and wrapped her short arms around him. Skinny as he was, his shoulders were broad enough that her arms couldn't make it all the way around._

"_I'll keep the monsters away this time. They won't get past me."_

_Tim laughed...and cried...and then wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in an embrace that both gave and received comfort. She didn't tease him. They fell asleep that way and Sarah didn't ever tell their parents about it._

"I remember," Tim said. "I remember that."

"Me, too."

He couldn't actually see Sarah right now, only feel her arms.

"This is different."

"I know...but...no one is going to hurt you here."

Tim took a long breath. "I don't..." The panic rose for no real reason. He fought against it, knowing that Sarah wouldn't be able to deal with it. "...I'm afraid...it hurts."

"I can't stop it."

"I know."

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I don't know."

Sarah's hold on him tightened and he pulled back. It was too close to being tied down.

"Let me go, Sarah. Please."

The arms were immediately gone.

"I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes and tried to listen to his breathing, trying to determine how he felt. It was shaky...but not too fast, not very loud.

_I'm not afraid? Or I am...but not terrified?_

"Tim?"

The name sometimes felt foreign. People said it to him a lot and he knew that the name belonged to him, but it didn't seem to fit on him anymore. Tim was a person who could...think without having a meltdown. Tim was a person who hadn't killed people.

_I didn't kill people, though...did I? They said I didn't...is that right?_

"Tim? Please, you're scaring me."

Maybe the name really was his. Maybe he wasn't nameless like he'd been told. Maybe...

"Tim. Answer me!"

...but how could it be possible? How could he own that name when he had no connection to it? ...when he was so lost inside himself? The person who owned that name wasn't lost, wasn't alone, wasn't in pain...didn't hear the commands of someone who...

_Do not speak!_

_Do not look away!_

"Tim!"

He couldn't let it out, couldn't let out all the agony, all the fear, all the tears. They had to be buried deep inside, never released. Release meant only more pain.

"McGee...McGee, look at me. Remember? You thought you had killed us. You were wrong. You did not."

The voice cut through the remembered fear, but it couldn't get rid of it. There was something important...something they needed to know, but he didn't know why...or even exactly what it was.

"Ziva!" he said, desperate for someone to understand.

"McGee, it is all right. You are safe."

He opened his eyes wide, as wide as he could, not knowing how that made him appear. He needed her to understand. He heard his breathing, loud, uncontrolled, but that could wait. He forced himself to look right into Ziva's concerned eyes.

"I don't have a name! I don't have a name!"

"Yes, you do. It is Timothy McGee."

"No! You don't understand. I don't have a name! I can't have a name. No identity. Nothing to...no _name_!" He was starting to shake again, starting to hear the voices in his ears.

"I do not understand, McGee."

He shouted in an effort to make her get it, babbling words, repeating the same phrases over and over again, trying to make it clear.

"I don't have a name! We don't have names. No one has names. No names! Not me. No names!" He could see that she still didn't get it and he panicked, afraid that he would forget before he had the chance to explain. "You have a name! You're Ziva! You do. Sarah has a name. We don't! We don't have names. He takes them! He takes our names away! He doesn't have a name! Please! Please! I don't have a name!"

Things started to get confused in his head as the panic took precedence over the need for comprehension.

"I...I...I used to have...used to be...and...now...do I? I do... I do...but...but he takes it. He always takes it. Always...from everyone!"

He looked beyond Ziva and saw people standing the doorway.

"No! No! Not again. Please, no, not again. Not again. Please, no!" He pulled back on the bed, away from everyone, pulled back until he fell from the bed to the floor. His head hit the floor...hard...and things started to swim in his vision. The last thing he saw was Ziva. He tried to reach for her, tried to tell her one more time.

"No names...no names, Ziva..." Then, all was black.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

_He took his time as he removed her identity. It was easy to do. The more they set themselves apart, above everyone around them, the easier it was to make them no one. It wasn't as simple as taking away a wallet. That was just a symbol of who they were...an important symbol but a symbol nonetheless. People defined themselves by how they dressed, how they did their hair...how they saw themselves. Take away their clothes, their pretty hair...destroy their self-image. Then, all that would be left is a person. A person with no identity._

_She had started out so confident, so sure. It had been a pleasure at first to remove her self-confidence...but the begging got on his nerves. He didn't like to hear weeping and begging. It was irritating. So he stopped her from speaking. Then, bit by bit, he took her away from herself. No name. No life. No job. Nothing. She was nothing._

_He smiled. It had not taken long. Two days. He always watched them for a long time before he took them. He had to know what he was taking and the fastest way to do it. Now, as he watched her die, he saw her life fade away...into nothingness..._

_...and he exulted at adding another to the number of the nameless._


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Tony was bored...and more worried than he wanted to admit. He was afraid because no one had come to tell him anything about Tim, not for two days. A total lack of information was a bad sign. Abby had come but she couldn't tell him anything. He got the feeling that she was afraid to know...which meant that she was not a good source of information.

Tim was his friend, his coworker. He needed to know...but he didn't want to let Tim see the bandage, the sling. He didn't want to let Tim know that he'd actually come close to killing one of the team. Now that they were moving away from the decision of drugging him into a stupor, he could think about little else than what had happened. They'd had so much of marking time in the last few months. He'd never forget coming out of the building and finding...Tim gone. Just gone. No ransom note. No indication of anything than that Tim had disappeared into thin air. The tip had been bogus...which had been incredibly annoying. Those kinds of things happened sometimes, but it didn't make them any less irritating.

No one had seen anything. There were no fingerprints, nothing except for Tim's phone lying on the ground where he had been standing. No fingerprints on the phone except for Tim's. It had only been later that day that they had all remembered Tim's bad feeling. Why hadn't they listened to him? Why had they simply disregarded him like they did too many times? Why was it so easy to pretend that Tim was still a probie who didn't know how things worked? He'd been an agent for over five years. He knew how things worked. He'd proven his abilities time and again...and yet...

The self-recriminations had faded, if not completely disappeared. Guilt and self-blame were distractions that could not be allowed when searching for a friend. Technically, they weren't lead. Emotionally, they were too close to the case, but Lovitz wasn't the kind of person to try and pull rank...and Vance hadn't been very keen on keeping them from helping. When the tip had come in...one of too many...they hadn't held out much hope, even though every one of them had wanted to believe they would find him.

That room... Tony knew it would haunt his dreams for a long time...and would haunt Tim for even longer. It wasn't that it was filled with obvious instruments of torture. No. There had been a single chair in the room. No windows. Curiously, there was a pipe which emptied out directly over the chair. A blank, white wall, opposite the chair. The room was wired. Speakers in the corners, amps, woofers. It was a high quality sound system... In fact, it looked like a home theater system in a way. ...if that home theater was designed to destroy a human being.

Tim, strapped to that chair, looking so thin. His eyes had stared blankly ahead, never moving from whatever it was he thought he was looking at. They had not shifted, not once. He had seemed amazed to be able to move. At first, they didn't really think that he'd been in the chair for all that long...but the bed sores had told a different story. Then...then, they had seen the cables hooked up to the chair and realized what the chair had been used for. Tony had nearly been sick; even Ziva had not been able to cover her shock. Tony thought, however, that as bad as everything was from the healing bruises to the whip welts, the worst was that broken finger. His eyes had continually gone back to it because of the angle at which it had been facing. When the doctors had said that it had been broken repeatedly and in different places, never being allowed to heal, Tony really _had_ been sick. There was no reason for that except to cause pain...over and over. For some reason, that was worse than the electric shock although he was sure Tim wouldn't feel the same way.

The end result of all that, thus far, seemed to be Tony's current situation. He couldn't deny that Tim had probably _wanted_ to shoot him on occasion, but in this case... It wasn't the pain from the bullet. It was the pain in Tim's eyes. He had truly thought that he had murdered his friends over and over again...and the belief had been so firmly entrenched in his mind that he could only think of one way to deal with it: kill them again and hope they don't come back.

"You have no idea how strange it is to see your face expresssing deep thought."

Tony looked up and rolled his eyes at Ziva.

"How's McGee?"

She shrugged and walked further into the room. "You are being released today, yes?"

"You are avoiding my question."

"Will you go straight home?"

"Why won't you answer me?"

Ziva was not looking directly at him...and that was a bad sign, too.

"Is McGee dead?"

Her head jerked up. "No! He is not dead."

"Then, what's wrong?"

"Beyond the fact that he has been tortured for an unknown reason for three months, that his mind is so damaged that he cannot think or speak clearly, that he is as afraid of us as he is of his captor?"

"Yes."

"He is unconscious."

"What? What happened to him? I thought he was in the secure wing."

"He is."

"Then, what happened?"

"He fell off his bed."

"What? How?"

"Things have not been...smooth."

"Ziva, if I want to hear random statements, I'll talk to Abby."

"Very well." Ziva didn't look happy about it. "He was strapped down early yesterday morning because he became violent and hit his mother." Tony was about to exclaim but now that she'd started Ziva wasn't allowing interruptions. "It caused him to panic to the extent they thought he might be lost. Gibbs forced them to release him. He realized what he'd done and we nearly lost him again. Last night...or rather this morning, Sarah was with him to give Naomi a break, and McGee was all right, afraid but all right. Then, he began saying that he didn't have a name. He said it over and over again, as if he was trying to tell me something very important. He was shouting and agitated. One of the nurses came to check on us...but McGee thought they were coming to strap him down and he tried to get away. He fell over the railing on his bed and hit his head on the floor. He is unconscious."

"Is he all right?"

"The doctors say yes, but he is not awake yet. I do not know how he will be the next time. Sometimes, he is better, sometimes worse."

"I hate this."

"As do I."

"I don't know why I thought just finding him would make everything okay. Even people who _haven't_ been tortured aren't okay after being kidnapped." He rubbed his face. "Have they found anything yet?"

"A partial print belonging to a man who has not existed for more than thirty years. A rental agreement with a false name and no identification. ...and one witness who can't tell us anything because his mind has been fractured." Ziva stood up to leave, turning her face toward the door. "That is what we have."

"McGee will be okay. He's strong. He'll make it."

"Some people do not, Tony. Sometimes, it is not enough to be strong."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

_He wasn't sure if he was pleased or furious. How could they believe that simpleton was the one who had killed her? Yes, he'd planted evidence and he'd known the man had no alibi, but please. He was a weakling! It took time, planning, above all, intelligence to do what he'd done. That man had none of those attributes. Ridiculous. Those investigators knew absolutely nothing if they thought that someone else could do what he had done...many times over. He'd have to show them directly. They would have to experience it for themselves to know what he was capable of...to know that no one else could do what he did. It would take time. He'd have to plan and he'd have to be careful. For all their faults, many of them were intelligent and were trained to notice things. He could just content himself with one of the underlings...but no. If this was going to be an effective demonstration, it would have to be one of the special agents, the lead team. They would be the recipients...but how. _

_A smile crept across his face as he considered his next move. It would be his best yet. He would add another to his ranks...and he would make that one a weapon in his hands. Once he took the name away, he would make someone he could control._

_But which one? He watched them work efficiently at the crime scene, mixed in with the other onlookers. Not the woman. He didn't like doing two women in a row. The ME? No. He was too old...and his assistant would be too easy. That left the agents. He wanted one of them anyway. The leader? It would be a challenge, he could tell...but the leader would be harder to isolate. He watched the others and knew that they all held him in high esteem. That left the two younger ones. Either one would do. Unrushed, he watched them both. Which would be best for his purposes? Then, he watched a brief altercation between them...and the youngest one looked annoyed but backed down while the other laughed at his capitulation...and was promptly slapped on the back of the head by the leader. The youngest one was soft. He'd had a good life, an easy life...one in which he was used to being the lowest on the totem pole, but he had been secure enough to deal with it. The other would be harder to break. He'd seen more difficulty and had the kind of personality that would refuse to break just to be annoying. That wasn't what he wanted. Besides, he could see that they also looked on the youngest one much like the baby brother: to be teased and humiliated...and protected. Breaking him would cause damage across the entire spectrum. Yes. The smile that never reached his eyes once again graced his lips. Yes. _

_Timothy McGee...you are now mine._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was an odd feeling, this waking. He felt dull and slow...which was somehow not what he had expected. His eyes drifted open and then closed. He wasn't clear on what was happening, what _had_ happened...everything was nicely fuzzy...and he knew that he didn't want that fuzz to dissipate.

"Tim? Tim, can you hear me?"

"The swelling's gone down. He should be waking now."

"Tim?"

His eyes slowly lifted and his lids fluttered. He caught a brief glimpse of his mother and father leaning over him in concern...and another person, a doctor, standing behind them, before his lids rebelled and closed again.

"Tim?"

"Mom? What happened?"

"You fell out of the bed. You were afraid and moved back too far. You scared Sarah out of her wits."

"Sorry," Tim said and tried to think beyond the dull throbbing ache in his skull. He felt...shivery, like he'd had a bad bout of the flu...and he was confused, but the fog was dissipating, even if he didn't want it to. Suddenly, he remembered and opened his eyes, trying to sit up in bed, but not making it beyond the intention to move. Not only did his head start swimming but Naomi held him down gently.

"Don't try to sit up, Tim. You had a bad knock and you shouldn't try to move around too much yet."

"No, I have to...I have to explain! ...now, before I forget! ...before I can't!" He tried to sit up again but again failed. In lieu of that, he grabbed his mother's arms. "Please!"

"It's important?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." Naomi sat down beside Tim on the bed. "Okay, Tim. Now, I need you to look at me..." She smiled. "...no, not _toward_ me. I'm your mother. I can tell when you're really looking at me. Look _at_ me. Thank you. Now, you need to be calm. If this is important, you need to tell me so that I can understand and if you panic, I'm not going to understand. Okay?"

Tim nodded. "Okay. Okay."

"Shhh...calm." She was massaging his temple. While it was a relief to have him at least _attempting_ to speak in complete sentences, it still was agonizing to realize that his mind was operating at such a level. "This is like when you used to try to explain the things you were learning at school to me. Remember?"

Tim smiled briefly. "Yes."

"Like that. I had to remind you to slow down. Now, I need you to slow down and tell me."

"Okay."

"Are you calm?"

Tim took a deep breath, fighting against the clamoring in his head, the fear and that edge of pain that seemed to be a part of him, that pressure in his brain that he couldn't alleviate.

"Are you calm enough to tell me?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then. What is it?"

"I don't have a name. That's important."

"You do have a name, Tim."

"No, you don't understand!"

"Shhh...calm."

Tim took another deep breath and let it out slowly. Then, he swallowed. "The...he...he took my name. He took me away and he stole me and...and he...always takes the names." He shook his spinning head in frustration. "I knew this. I knew it before!" The pain in his head increased and he clenched his hands into tight fists.

"Tim, calm down."

"I knew it! I know! I...just I...can't get it out!"

"Shhh..." Naomi said again. "You said it's important that he took your name. Why?"

"Because we were wrong! I knew we were wrong and...and it's because he took our names...all of us!"

"This is about a case?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then, let me get one of your teammates here. They will better understand."

"Mom?"

"Don't worry, dear. I'll be right back."

Tim watched her walk out of the room and then, anchored his eyes on the only other person in the room.

"Dad?"

Sam had stayed back during a lot of these moments, not because he didn't care or was chary of showing his concern, but because there were things that Tim needed from his mother. Naomi had always been the one he'd gone to when he had nightmares, when he was afraid. Trouble at school was Sam's department. Trouble at night was Naomi's. ...but this...

He rolled close to the bed, taking in his son's pallor, his fear, his...injury. A thought, a quotation, came into his mind. People liked teasing him for his propensity to quote the words of others, but it was more than a habit. It was how his mind worked. Now...

_I like a look of agony  
__Because I know it's true._

"Emily Dickinson," he whispered to himself.

"Anything useful?"

Sam looked up at his son and was surprised to see a shadow of a smile on his face.

"No. Not this time. I can't think of a single thing to say that will help."

Tim's mouth twisted. "Nothing _can_ help. Nothing...because..."

"'In the country of pain, we are each alone.'"

"Who...who said that?" he asked.

"May Sarton."

"She's right. I can't tell you...because there aren't any words."

"Then, don't tell me, Tim. Don't try. Some things...they're beyond words."

"Are you sorry?"

"For what?"

Tentatively, Tim reached out and patted the chair...then, he withdrew his hand, as if afraid of punishment.

"Yes, Tim. Yes, I'm sorry that I'm in this chair, but you know what? I don't mind it anymore. If someone told me that there was a miracle cure that would heal my spine and allow me to walk again, I'd sign up in a heartbeat...but I don't need that in order to be happy."

"I'm sorry."

"I know. You don't have to be...especially right now." Sam reached out and took Tim's hand, his marred one. He turned it over and gently touched the gnarled pinky finger. Tim flinched at the touch but didn't try to pull away. "All you need to do right now is heal as much as you can. We'll be there with you...to help where we can."

"It hurts, Dad."

"I understand that."

"Everywhere hurts."

"Yes. Body and spirit."

"I don't want to hurt anymore."

"It will take time."

"But it hurts."

Sam smiled at his son's insistence. There was a dullness in his gaze that spoke volumes about what had been done to him. His son's unconquerable curiosity seemed to be finally diminished...and he hated that, hated whoever had done that to his son. It was so wrong that Tim's eyes, which had always sparkled with interest could be filled with a pain so deep that he had no room for anything else. Rebuilding a damaged spirit was a difficult task and some people couldn't do it, but Sam was determined to have Tim be one who could.

The door to the room opened and Tim pulled back, but Sam was ready for that reaction and he held tightly to Tim's hand.

"It's okay, Tim," he said. "See?"

"What is it, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"I have to tell you something."

"Remember...calm," Naomi said as she resumed her place by the bed.

"This is important?" Ziva asked.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"We were wrong." Just for an instant, Tim seemed almost normal. He was intent on explaining. The problem was that he had so much trouble explaining himself.

"What were we wrong about?"

"Everything."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"What were we wrong about, McGee? I do not understand," Ziva said, with strained patience. It had been five minutes of confused explanations and she still was no wiser.

"Remember," Tim begged. "No name...she didn't have a name."

"Who?"

Tim frantically tried to make himself clear. He knew that he wasn't saying the things he needed to say and he knew that they were in his head. It was an important thing. He was pulling it up through the mess of his mind, through the pain...but it was getting confused in transit. The only reason he wasn't freaking out was that Naomi and Sam were both sitting near him, keeping him calm.

"When was it, Tim?" Sam asked in his teacher voice.

"Long time..." Tim closed his eyes and struggled to make his mind work the way he knew it had in the past...he knew that but he couldn't remember it. It was like looking at...at a movie, not like his life. "Three...three years. Yes. Three years. Three years ago." Synapses that he had forgotten even existed began firing. "She didn't have ID. It was like Ducky's Lt. Jane Doe...but not, because she really was in the Navy...and she was..."

"She was naked and her hair had been shaved off. Is that right?" Ziva asked.

"Yes!" Tim said with relief.

"But we caught the murderer. He was convicted."

"No! We were wrong! It wasn't him. It was...it was...someone else."

"Who?" Then, she got it. "The same person who took you? That is what you mean, yes?"

"He takes away who we are...he said things...and...and..." Tim felt it, the fear, the agony ripping through him. His mind, the part that worked, retreated under the weight of the memories and the pain, leaving Tim alone in that chair, watching himself murdering his friends, being crushed by the pain that never ceased. The room started to fade to nothingness...

"Tim, breathe!"

He dragged in a deep breath and the room came back into focus. They were all around him...and Gibbs had somehow been added to the mix as well. The panic faded but didn't completely disappear. It was too easy, too easy, with Ziva and Gibbs standing there, to see them bleeding, too easy to believe that he had killed them, too easy to disregard the evidence in his face and accept his skewed perceptions.

"Another breath, Tim."

Obediently, he inhaled. Everything sharpened.

"Boss..." Tim said, weakly. "...where did you come from?"

"NCIS."

"No...when?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"A few minutes? ...but I..."

"We almost lost you, again, Tim," Naomi said softly. "I thought you might be gone for good this time."

"I don't...I don't understand." In his mind, he had only lost a minute, maybe two. Now, with his mind partially engaged, he began to go over the time since...he shut that part down. No need to think about that for the moment.

"You stopped talking, even stopped breathing briefly. It's been almost an hour since Ziva came in," Sam explained.

"How long has it been...since...since you...f-found me?" Tim asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Nearly two weeks."

"What? But...but I don't...that's..."

"Tim, look at me," Naomi said and stopped Tim's frantic motions.

"I don't remember that," he said, fearfully.

"I know, and it's okay. Just stay here with us. You'll be all right."

"I don't..."

"McGee," Gibbs said, his voice sounding much too kind as he cut through Tim's preoccupation. "Can you tell me what you know?"

"Agent Gibbs!" Naomi protested angrily, in full mother bear mode, but Tim, making the first firm gesture they'd seen, first decision since his rescue, placed his hand, his broken hand, on her arm.

"Mom...I can do it."

"Tim..."

"Please...I need to." Tim felt the fear, but also a desperate need to...to _talk_, to try to explain, even if he knew that he couldn't really tell them what was in his head. He could only...remember it. He met her gaze pleadingly. He needed to speak...to break the silence that had ruled him for the last three months.

Naomi sighed but then, acceding to the necessity, she looked at him sternly. "Remember, Tim."

"Calm...slow..." He smiled anxiously. "Help me?"

"You know I will." She sat beside him on the bed again, putting her arms gently around him. "Go ahead."

Gibbs sat down on the chair she had vacated. He was...different to Tim's perception.

"Ask me, Boss." _I can't do this on my own._

Gibbs nodded in understanding. "Why are you so sure we were wrong about the murder of Lt. Steiner?"

"Because we are."

"But why?"

"I...he...he said things to me..things...when he took my name."

Gibbs leaned forward. "What things, McGee?"

Tim felt Naomi's arms around him, protecting him from the monsters he could feel prowling around. It gave him the courage to go on, to confront a small part of the horror of his life.

"Things about...about her...things he knew...her _hands_." Tim emphasized the last word, hoping that Gibbs would read what he meant.

Gibbs blinked, remembering the awful state of Lt. Steiner's body.

"What did he say, McGee?" he asked, voice slow and measured.

Tim leaned back against Naomi for a moment, the memory momentarily overwhelming, the feeling of the man being so...so horribly close as he whispered into Tim's ear. The declaration had preceded one of the beatings...and the second time his finger had been broken.

"What did he say?" Gibbs asked again.

"That she had no identity, that it belonged to him...like...like me..." Tim swallowed and a hand convulsively grabbed Naomi's arm. "...that...that he had even taken away her fingerprints."

That detail had never been released to the press. The Steiner family had been more than willing to keep it secret and her casket had been closed in any case.

"He said...some...some dates..."

"Dates?"

Tim's eyes closed and his voice became flat and emotionless. "I'm adding to the ranks. Your name is mine. No one has a name. She is mine. You tried to take her from me, but her life is mine. The nameless belong to me. _You_ belong to me."

"He was wrong, McGee," Ziva said from her place at the end of the bed. "You do not belong to him. You have a name, and you are not his."

"It's all my fault," Tim said.

"No."

"It's all my fault."

"No, you were right, McGee," Ziva said. "I remember. You didn't believe that her boyfriend could have killed her."

"It's all my fault," he parroted, not even thinking about the words, knowing only that whatever was wrong was due to him. It had to be.

"No." Sam caught Tim's eyes which were glazing over. "Tim, think about what you're saying. Don't just say it. I don't accept that from my students."

"I'm not your student," Tim said automatically. He knew what came next and could almost smile. He remembered...and it briefly broke through the conditioned response.

"No, you're my son. That means more. I expect you to think because I've taught you that your whole life."

"My mind's all messed up," Tim whispered. "It's all in there, but...I can't get to it."

_It's all your fault. It's all your fault. It's all your 's allyourfaultallyourfaultallyourfaultallyourfault..._

"Tim, stop it!"

He felt something strange on his hand and he looked down at it as Naomi's smaller hand was stopping him from clenching his fingers into a fist. As the tension in his arm eased, he saw bloody marks on his palm.

"See?" he whispered. "See?"

"I see, Tim," Sam said, "but I see more. I see that you are fighting it, and you'll win. I know you will."

He looked at Sam and then his eyes flitted around the room to the various occupants...and finally noticed that someone was missing.

"Where's Tony?"

The looks between them was fast, but as muddled as Tim was at the moment, he caught it.

"What is it?" Again, there was a pause just barely too long. "What is it?" he asked and his voice cracked dangerously. "Is he dead? Did I kill him?"

"No," Gibbs said with a finality that meant there was more to it. "No, he's not dead. You didn't kill him."

"But...but something's wrong. He would be here... What did I do?"

Tim felt his mother's arms around him, but his eyes were only on Gibbs...because Gibbs wouldn't lie to him, wouldn't sugarcoat something to make things better...because Gibbs, of all people, _knew_ that sugarcoating didn't _ever_ make things better. He wouldn't lie.

Gibbs met his gaze without flinching, without even blinking. He held Tim's eyes. "I want you to listen to me, McGee...and I mean _really_ listen. I want you to promise me right now that you will listen until I finish and not react until you hear everything."

"What did I do?" Tim asked, now terrified about what might have happened. He could imagine it much too easily...because he'd already done...no, he'd already _seen_ it happen.

"Promise me, McGee."

"Boss...Boss...what..."

"Promise!" The order was harsh and Tim recoiled, shaking. Gibbs sighed. "You have to listen to everything, McGee. All right?"

Slowly, Tim nodded...not sure if he could do it...and afraid of what Gibbs was obviously reluctant to tell him.

"Say it. Out loud."

"I promise."

"Okay." Gibbs looked above Tim's head...at Naomi before meeting Tim's eyes again. "You shot Tony." Before Tim could do anything more than widen his eyes in shock, horror, guilt...every negative emotion, Gibbs leaned forward, grabbed his shoulders and kept him looking straight into his eyes. "You weren't aiming for him...he's not dead. When you were fighting me for my gun, you pulled the trigger. It just happened to be pointing at Tony. You didn't mean to. He's going to be fine."

Tim was breathing shallowly.

"McGee, you hear me?"

He was trying to remember what had happened, but all that came to his mind was agony...and he still couldn't separate himself from the memory.

Suddenly, he was aware of being shaken. He opened his eyes...not knowing he had closed them...and saw Gibbs right in front of him. He remembered again.

"I killed Tony!"

"No. No, Tim. You didn't. You hit his collarbone. He was released today."

"I shot Tony!" It didn't seem to make any difference that Tony wasn't dead. He had killed him before without him staying dead. Over and over, he saw Tony, blood running from his neck, as he slowly sunk to the ground, eyes blank, empty...

Another shake...and Tony faded away, leaving Gibbs. He couldn't feel his mother near him anymore. He couldn't see his father. Just Gibbs who kept telling him that what he saw in his head was wrong.

"Come on, Tim. Don't do this to yourself again. Tony's all right. He's not dead. He's not bleeding, just a bit bored and annoyed at the lack of attention."

He was aware of trembling, his entire body, and not just because Gibbs shook him again. The pain swelled in his head, searching for some sort of release...a release that he couldn't find. The pressure just had to build even further.

...and so he screamed out his agony.

"It's my fault! It's my fault! It's my fault!" He screamed the words over and over again because a simple wordless cry wasn't enough. Even the screaming wasn't enough...but there was no other way to get rid of the pain. He was holding Gibbs' arms as he was shaken. He wasn't really looking _at_ Gibbs any longer...rather, he was looking over his shoulder...and then...

His screams faded away and the room came back into focus.

"McGee."

"I killed you," he whispered, his eyes on the sling, on the white bandage visible around the collar of the t-shirt Tony was wearing.

"No. I promise, you didn't," Tony said and walked further into the room. He was slightly pale, but he looked...nearly normal.

"I shot you."

"Yeah...didn't aim very good though." Tony smiled. "I was surprised you didn't do it sooner, to be honest. I've certainly asked for it enough times."

"I shot you."

Tony's smile disappeared and he walked closer. "You did, but it wasn't your fault. You hear me, Probie? It wasn't your fault. The gun went off."

"I shot you."

"I would actually see it more as a stray bullet."

"I shot you."

"Yes...yes, Tim, you did, but it's okay." Tony hesitated for just a moment and then went on, "I forgive you." The words were too much like absolution from a priest, but they seemed to penetrate Tim's muddled brain.

"Why?"

"Because you deserve it. Because it's not your fault. Because of all the things you shouldn't have to worry about right now...a horrible accident is right at the top of the list."

The pressure eased...but didn't go away. It changed to something else...a different kind of pain, but it was easier to think through, easier to hear what was being said.

"You...you're going to be okay?" He couldn't believe it on his own, but maybe...maybe if Tony said it.

"Yeah. I'm going to be fine, McGee." It was ironic that he had to assure Tim of that fact when in any other instance, he'd be milking it for all it was worth...and more. "Don't you worry about that. I'm peachy...or I will be in a week or two."

"I didn't kill you," Tim said with a bit of wonder.

"No."

"I shot you, though."

"Yeah...but shot doesn't always equal dead." He was going to add, _Especially with you holding the gun_, but the worry, the fear, the pain that was still present in Tim's eyes, kept him from making the joke that in normal circumstances would ease the tension.

"No."

Tony reached out with his uninjured arm. "I promise, McGee, I'm okay. I'm not lying."

"Okay." He felt exhausted again, as if he'd gone through another day of torture. He looked at Gibbs. "I'm tired."

Gibbs gently leaned him back on his bed. "Then, sleep, McGee. You'll be safe."

Tim nodded, trusting Gibbs, again, not to lie. "I don't...I don't know," he mumbled and then drifted away, hoping that maybe this once he'd really be able to sleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs let out a long breath as Tim's eyes closed. Then, he looked across the bed to where Naomi, Sam and Dr. Sakota were waiting.

"Thanks for trusting me," he said softly.

"I'm not sure I'm glad we did," Naomi said equally softly, her eyes on Tim.

"He needed the truth...more than he needed to be comforted."

"He asked, didn't he," Tony said.

"Yeah. Noticed you weren't here. Figures that even in the middle of a breakdown, McGee would notice a detail like that."

"What you did was risky, Agent Gibbs," Dr. Sakota said. "Victims of torture don't deal with memories like people do in the cases of regular trauma. They usually can't separate themselves from the memory. They can only relive it...as you've seen multiple times. Sometimes, the mind fractures and really can't heal. Forcing this on him..."

"It wasn't force," Gibbs interrupted. "You don't know McGee. It would have been worse, once he noticed that Tony wasn't here, to keep him in the dark or lie to him. If we told him nothing, he would only believe the worst. He'd do that if he hadn't been tortured. If we lied...once he found out, he wouldn't trust us. I'm not willing to give up that trust...that...belief he has that he can rely on us. He _needs _it. I may not be an expert, but I know that McGee needs to know he can trust us...even when it hurts. He needs the truth."

Sam sighed. He'd been the one holding Naomi back when Gibbs had started shaking Tim, had shaken his head when Dr. Sakota wanted to intervene.

"He's right, Naomi. You know it. You know Tim. He's one who always needs to know the truth...because the lies hurt more. They always do...and you know why."

Naomi closed her eyes against an unpleasant memory and then nodded. "I know, Sam. I know. This is tearing me apart. Every time he seems to be better...and then, he's not."

"He'll get better," Gibbs said. He stared at Dr. Sakota. "He'll get better."

"How much better can't be known at this point," Dr. Sakota said firmly.

"Yes, it can. McGee will make it...all the way. He will because I can see it in his eyes that he _wants_ to make it. It might take a while, but he'll make it."

"Agent Gibbs?" Sam asked.

"Yes?"

"Could you give me hand? I can't stay here in the hospital overnight, no matter how much I would like to. Would you give me a ride back to the hotel?" He looked at Naomi and smiled. "I know you don't want to leave yet."

"Sam."

"No, dear. It's all right...but you get some sleep tonight. It won't do Tim any good if you wear yourself out." Sam gestured at the people in the room. "Tim is not alone, nor friendless. I believe that your ME...Ducky? ...said he would be coming by tonight. He may be able to stay for some time. I don't think I'm wrong when I say you're all willing."

"Absolutely," Tony said.

"But you, Tony, should go home," Ziva said. "You are already as white as McGee and that is saying something. I will give you a ride and then return."

"Ziva, you're not my mother," Tony said, glaring.

"No, I am your friend and colleague and I am stronger than you. I am not above using force."

Tony rolled his eyes, but it was obvious to everyone that he _was_ tired. "Fine, fine. Take me home."

Ziva gestured and she and Tony left the room. Sam rolled out after them but went slowly so that the two of them were well ahead of him and Gibbs.

"What's on your mind, Sam?" Gibbs asked.

"Your methods, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs kept walking beside him and didn't respond.

"I supported you in there because you're right...but I don't think you know why you are...and I think you _should_ know."

"What should I know?"

"There's a very specific reason why Tim hates lying...and hates being lied to so much. Most people don't like lies, but Tim's reason is a bit more...intense than most." Sam slowed to a stop. "I suppose you know how I got into this chair?"

"Yes. McGee mentioned it once, only once. Crashing the Camaro you gave him."

"Yeah, he felt guilty for a long time. He was driving...and it didn't matter that it wasn't his fault. It only mattered that he was driving when I was paralyzed. Well...there was...additional fallout from that accident. We don't talk about it anymore really. It's one of those things we all have preferred to put behind us."

"You don't need to tell me now."

"Yes, I think I do. You need to understand." Sam took a deep breath. "It was hard for me to be paralyzed." He laughed. "That seems like such an understatement, doesn't it. Well, anyway, I fell into a deep depression, but I hid it from everyone...because I figured it would only make things harder for Tim if he knew. I could barely get him to look at me. It was Tim's senior year. He was sixteen, just healing up from the accident. Springtime."

Sam started wheeling forward again. When he reached the elevator, he stopped once more and pushed the button.

"Tim's not exactly a genius, you know. He's pretty close, but technically, he's not. I've wondered sometimes if we made a mistake in accelerating him. He never had many close friends and he was bullied for being younger. You wouldn't think two years would make that much difference, but it did." The elevator doors opened and Sam started to laugh. "Listen to me. I'm maundering. I need Naomi around to tell me when I'm going off on a tangent."

"Tell the story however you want to."

Sam smiled. "Well, I'm sure you can see where it's going. People would ask me how I was doing, and I was always doing _fine_. Tim asked me...nearly every day...needing the assurance that he hadn't totally ruined his father's life...and I was _fine_. ...and all the while I was telling people I was fine, I was planning my suicide. I think it must be one of the facets of being an academic. I took my time, planned everything down to the last detail. ...but I was _fine_." He shook his head. "The appointed day arrived. I sent Naomi off to work. I still wasn't ready to go back...and at that point, I was wondering if I ever would be. I sent Tim and Sarah to the busstop."

The elevator doors opened once more and the two men headed for the exit. Sam stopped just inside the doors.

"We probably should have made Tim drive, should have bought him an old clunker, but there just wasn't money for it. There were my medical bills. We had to move because our old house wasn't wheelchair accessible and it would have cost more to renovate than to move. We got sued by a couple of the passengers of the city bus and had to pay legal fees. Maybe we should have countersued, but the sight of Tim being questioned...I couldn't put him through that again." Sam laughed again. "Here I go again. I sent them off. I cleaned up the kitchen, and then, I...went into the bedroom to write my suicide note. I had everything ready...and the front door opened. Tim had come home for whatever reason. He's never said. He saw me."

Perhaps if he could have walked, Sam would have been pacing, but he couldn't. Instead, he rolled forward, out of the hospital, Gibbs walking beside him.

"They put me on suicide watch for a while, but they didn't need to. One look..." He had to stop to hold back tears. "...one look in my son's eyes cured me. He wasn't angry, although he was later. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't even sad. He was betrayed. I had betrayed him because I had told him, just that morning, that I was fine...and there I was, getting ready to kill myself. It took a long time for us to recover from that. Tim wouldn't speak to me...not for days and our relationship was strained almost to the breaking point for weeks. I had lied repeatedly to my son, who had told me everything, who only wanted me to be happy and to be okay. His attitude...well, yes, it was selfish, but so was mine."

Gibbs stayed quiet all through the narrative, allowing Sam to talk, knowing the words needed to be said.

"You need to understand, Agent Gibbs, that this is the reason I didn't let Naomi claw your eyes out when you shook Tim."

Gibbs smiled.

"Naomi knows that you're right, but she doesn't want you to be. Nor do I, if it comes to that, but because she never betrayed Tim...she doesn't understand quite as well as I do."

"I suppose I'm a bit more physical than you expected."

"No. Tim's told us about the 'Gibbs slaps'. It's just a parental thing," Sam said, but his expression became stern, brooking no disagreement. "That's other thing you need to keep in mind when you're dealing with Tim."

"What?"

"He's not just your agent. He's my son. He's Sarah's brother. He is Naomi's oldest child. We had planned on having a big family...things didn't work out that way. We treasure our children as any parent does. If we lost Tim, there would be a hole that we couldn't fill. If Tim survives physically but not mentally...that would leave a worse hole because he knows that there's something wrong with him...and for him to know that for the rest of his life... Just be aware that if something happens to him, it won't just be that you have to find a replacement. For some of us, there will be no replacement, just a gaping hole." Proving that he was as surprisingly astute as Tim could be on occasion, he added, "I think you understand what I mean."

That caught Gibbs unawares. "Yes. I do understand."

"I'm sorry for that."

"So am I." Gibbs looked ahead of him. "Here's the car."

They both got in and rode to the McGees' hotel in silence. Sam got out and into the wheelchair Gibbs unloaded.

"Thank you for the ride, Agent Gibbs."

"You're welcome, Sam."

Sam started to go.

"Sam?"

He turned back. "Yes?"

"McGee's not just an agent to us. He's a lot more."

Sam smiled sadly. "I know, Agent Gibbs...because you're a lot more to him than just coworkers. It's amazing how many are hurt by the injury of one...but as Ovid said...or wrote... we must 'endure and persist; this pain will turn to good by and by.' I can only hope he's right."

Gibbs watched him go into the hotel and stood out on the sidewalk for a few seconds, digesting what had been said. Then, he got back in his car, the words of Ovid echoed in his head. He only hoped that Tim could 'endure and persist.' Who was winning the battle at the moment was much too unclear.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_Once upon a time..._

_Who could have known that the soft agent had so much steel in him? He was secretly as strong as any other person he'd broken. The softness covered up a determination and strength that was...surprising. Even as he watched him scream in pain, he could see in his eyes that he wasn't broken. He always made private wagers as to how long it would take to remove someone's identity. He was rarely wrong. Even with the different approach he was taking this time around, he still would have put this man down to two days, maybe three. They were now beginning week two. It was time to step up things a notch or two...not too much, though. He didn't want to kill him or put him into a totally apathetic state, as could happen with torture._

_He had plenty of time, after all. No one knew he existed. The last person to know him was a cop who had busted him for joyriding, little knowing what he'd really been doing. Joyriding. Like he would waste his valuable time doing something so stupid. That had been the last time he had used the name his loathsome mother had been persuaded to give him. She certainly hadn't come up with it herself. He remembered all too well his mother's idea of good parenting. ...only slightly worse than the foster home he'd lived in, though those people had at least cared enough to be sure that he was fed regularly._

_There was plenty of time to put his prey into the desired state. With a smile, he turned on the water and watched with relish as his captive started in reaction to the sudden onslaught. What came next was better. He turned up the volume so that the screams echoed in the room as the man who had once been called Timothy McGee struggled to free himself from the chair...from the electricity currently stimulating his pain receptors. There was no escape, of course. Only death freed him from his captivity...death and of course, his captor._

_He took time to break, but in the end, he broke, just like everyone else did. He lost. Everyone lost. The only one who won was the one doing the breaking. He watched and saw the moment that capitulation won out over fighting. There was no Timothy McGee. He had won. His identity was no more. He had tried to fight, to run away, but now, he knew that the only way to escape was to give up who he was._

_He had to be...nameless..._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was guided into consciousness by a kind voice, gently-accented, comforting.

"...it's silly perhaps, and most would think so, but I so wanted my first view of the Eastern seaboard to be a special one, and I couldn't get a good first view if the wing of the plane was blocking me from seeing anything until we were directly over it..."

It coaxed him back to the waking world.

"...so there I was, a grown man, begging to change seats with a random stranger so that I could see out the window. You can just imagine what she..."

Although the words being spoken were not overtly giving the message, what he heard from the voice was that the world was safe, that he could open his eyes without fearing what he'd see.

"...standing in the aisle, pleading with the stewardess...and yes, we still called them stewardesses in those days..."

He chose to believe.

"...and to this day, I can remember my first view of the United States, little knowing it would become my permanent home. I wish that every person in the world could have a sight like that."

...and he knew who it was speaking, although he knew nothing else. He chose to open his eyes.

"Hi," he said softly.

Ducky looked at him with a smile on his face. "Hello, Timothy. I would say good morning, but it is so early that I feel it besmirches the appellation."

Tim couldn't help but smile. Only Ducky could say the word _besmirches_ and actually sound natural.

"How are you feeling, lad?"

The smile left.

"That good, eh?"

Tentatively, Tim smiled once more. "I don't know how I am."

"Understandable. I wouldn't wish what happened to you on my worst enemy."

"Neither would I."

"You seem more connected this time around, if I may say so."

"For now."

"Yes, well, I will choose to believe that this heralds an upward trend in your recovery."

"Maybe it's true. I just don't know," Tim said, but it was true that this time, he felt better. There was that frightening darkness, however, that was on the edge of all of his thoughts, that feeling of...of pain and of...

"Timothy."

Tim blinked and Ducky's face reappeared, looking concerned.

"Remembering, were you?"

"I can't help it, Ducky," Tim said and the pain in his head swelled, almost to the breaking point. "I keep thinking that I killed them...even though I know I didn't...but I did...and I didn't...and..."

"Timothy."

Tim didn't hear him. "...and I did shoot Tony...but I didn't kill him...and I did...and...I can't keep it straight...and all the while I have...and it's...it won't go away, Ducky!"

"What won't?"

"It's in my head. It hurts and it won't go away. I can't stop it." He looked pleadingly at Ducky. "I don't know how." He pressed both hands against his forehead, screwing his eyes shut as he only reluctantly let out the air he'd taken in. "It hurts, Ducky."

"A headache?"

"No! No, it's _in_ my head. It won't...and I can...I can still feel..." His voice was shaking, his arms tensing. "I don't...not again..no, please..."

Ducky saw the danger immediately and pulled Tim's arms down. Then, he lifted Tim's head.

"You are all right, Timothy. Look at me."

Ducky's face was fading away, the hospital room being replaced by repeating images of killing his friends, surrounded by darkness, filled with pain.

"Timothy. Listen to me. Hear what I'm saying. It is very important for you remember where you are."

Faintly, he heard the words, but he couldn't fight against the memories.

"You are remembering, and that is to be expected."

The voice was so calm, not filled with panic or fear.

"It is only a memory that you have. It will not take you back there."

Was it a hand he was feeling on his arm? Or was it a strap, holding him down?

"You are in no danger here. You are still in the hospital."

He blinked and saw...for a moment...the reality. Ducky, holding his arm. Ducky, always the picture of calm...but it couldn't last.

"Timothy, I am here. I will not allow anyone to hurt you, to damage your already injured psyche any further."

He blinked again and the hospital room, with its shining sterility, began to pierce the darkness, the anguish that had swallowed him whole.

"If I thought it would help, I'd Gibbs slap you, but I doubt in your current state that you would even feel it."

He blinked once again and the darkness retreated to its usual place around the edges of his consciousness, waiting for another chance to swallow him.

"I might," he whispered.

Ducky smiled again, although the smile was heavily tinged with relief.

"Welcome back," he said.

"How long?"

"Oh, nearly an hour, I believe."

"Why don't I remember that?"

Ducky seemed unconcerned about that. "Loss of time is common enough after severe psychological trauma. That is something I would not worry about...at least not very much."

"I'm sorry, Ducky," Tim said and looked away.

"No, you do not have to apologize for being overwhelmed by your experiences. No man, I would wager, could possibly expect to leave three months' worth of trauma behind in so short a time. It is much easier to heal from physical injuries than from psychological injuries. We, who were left behind, have our own injuries from which to heal, although they are nothing compared to yours."

Tim's eyes moved back. "Tell me."

"I do not know that it would be a wise idea, Timothy. You may once again return to your memories."

Tim shook his head. "I didn't know what was happening outside of that..." He swallowed painfully. "...outside of that room. It was only...only at the...the beginning that I..." The days of pain, of agony, of every unbearable moment that he had to bear...

"Timothy."

The repetition of his name pulled him back. That calm stating of something that belonged to him, that had been returned to him much more gently than it had been stolen.

"...that's the worst part...when I knew about the time." The pressure in his head made him take a quick deep breath and let it out. "...after the first...few...days...it could have been years or minutes and I didn't know. I didn't know."

"Timothy." Again, his name, hearing it was like tonic. "Are you sure you wish to know?"

"Yes."

"Very well. If it becomes too much, stop me." He kept his hand on Tim's arm. "I was not there when they discovered your disappearance."

"No. No body," Tim said.

"Exactly. From what I understand, they immediately began looking for you. It was Ziva who discovered your cell phone, kicked under the car...and that, I believe, is when they really began to believe you were in danger."

"Not before?"

Ducky leaned forward. "While I do not doubt that the first days were your worst, for those of us left behind, they were the easiest to bear."

"Why?"

"Because...at the beginning, we believed it would not take much time to find you, to save you. We believed that it would only be a matter of hours, perhaps a day or two, before your whereabouts were discovered. You had been taken on a public street in broad daylight. Surely, someone had seen, someone had known."

"There was no one around," Tim said.

"No," Ducky agreed sadly. "Not a single person."

"He planned it. He was...he'd been...watching me...planning to..." Tim trailed off.

"Timothy, should I continue?"

With a strength he didn't feel, Tim wrenched his mind away from the darkness.

"Yes. Go on."

"Very well." Ducky continued but with a deeper concern in his eyes. "As the days continued with absolutely no word, no sign, _nothing_ to indicate what had happened to you, where you'd been taken...anything at all...it became harder. Guilt set in."

"About what?" Tim asked, genuinely confused.

"About the fact that they had discounted the bad feeling you'd had, that they'd left you outside alone, leading to your kidnapping. It was easy to do."

"They couldn't know."

"I know that, and so do they, but guilt is an easy emotion to feel."

"Yes."

"Yes, you know that well."

Tim nodded. "That's why we were there, you know."

"Because of guilt?"

"No...to take me. He...he said that...he knew me so well...that he knew what would happen, that it was part of why I was...why my name was his."

"I see."

"...but...but he was..." And here Tim felt greatly daring. "...he was...wrong... Wasn't he?"

Ducky smiled encouragingly. "Yes, he was wrong. He could not take your identity from you no matter what he tried to do."

"Why does it still hurt?"

"That I cannot answer, Timothy. It is within you, not me."

Tim nodded and stared at his arms, remembering how it had felt to be strapped to that horrible chair, his own body rebelling against the continued restraint, the pain that had been simply a part of his existence until he couldn't remember what it felt like _not_ being in pain...until the physical pain and the mental pain could not be differentiated.

"Shall I continue?"

Tim nodded, trying to force the blackness away.

"I do feel sorry for Agent Keating. He bore the brunt of your team's anxiety."

"What do you mean?"

"About a month after your disappearance, Tony got in an argument with him about the best way to search for you next. Keating, who does not have the same personal ties to you, was logically dismissing Tony's suggestions until Tony accused him of wanting you gone so that he could take your place. Well, the confrontation ended with Tony punching Keating right in the face. He broke Keating's nose, poor man. It was at that point that Director Vance made the decision to transfer your case to Lovitz' team. He'd been considering it for days, but seeing Tony's completely irrational reaction showed him that it was too difficult for them to continue.

"Tony felt terrible about it and apologized without any push to do so. Keating, although angry, accepted his apology...but I'm afraid that the damage had been done...in more ways than one."

Tim smiled a little, but he was listening raptly to this foreign view of his time...away.

"I would not have you think that Director Vance wished to call off the search, but he does have an agency to run and his critical response team had to be able to respond to cases...not get obsessed with one case to the exclusion of all else. Lovitz' team, I know, worked on it whenever they had a spare moment...and sometimes when they didn't as well. It was a difficult time. You know Lovitz. He is not a man to insist on procedure and he much more tactful than Jethro could ever be."

"If..." Here Tim stopped and had to rethink what he was about to say. He wasn't sure he was right. "...was it...was it Gibbs...and Tony...and Ziva...was it them who...who..."

"Found you? Yes, lad. They happened to be in the bullpen when an anonymous call came in claiming to have seen you. It had happened a few times, always nothing, but that time, Jethro had some down time and he insisted on checking it out. Lovitz didn't mind. I know he thought it would just be another dead end."

"...dead end..." Tim echoed. "...I wished I was dead...I...I could have been...but I wasn't."

"Yes, Timothy."

"They came."

"Yes, and found you. I don't think I've ever seen three people more afraid than they were when I arrived at the hospital. They said you were screaming, that you had looked dead, that you didn't even seem to see anything."

"I have a body," Tim whispered. "I didn't remember, but I do."

"Yes, you do," Ducky said softly.

Tim didn't really hear him. Those moments, his rescue, they weren't any better than his other memories, but he looked at them again.

"I was...I was just the pain, the mind, the...the darkness. Then...then, I...I could see. I _can _see." Tim reached out with his hand, like he had before and touched Ducky's face. "I could see...someone else, someone looking at me. I could...could touch. I _can_. I have...hands."

"Yes, Timothy." Ducky's voice was little more than shaped air.

"I didn't even remember that I could move...but I can. I can move. I can...hear...and see...and touch...feel. It's not just darkness anymore...darkness and pain...pain and darkness...but it's not." He looked at his arms, at the bandages covering the healing ulcers on his skin, the healing bruises that went deep into his body. His voice was becoming softer and softer as he spoke, Ducky forgotten. "But...but it still hurts and I can't...make the pain go away. It's locked inside...hidden...can't touch...can't feel...can't see. ...but I can hear...whispering in my ear, over and over...and it won't go away...like the pain. Feel his breath in my ear...even when I didn't know what it was...there...whispering...always...and the pain always follows."

"Timothy."

His name, again, pulled him back from the abyss. He looked at Ducky, afraid, tired, in pain.

"Why? Why, Ducky? Why does he whisper to me? Why did he take me, take my name, why?"

"I wish I knew, Timothy. I wish I could tell you and somehow magically heal your injured mind, but I confess that I have not that ability."

Up to this moment, Tim's movements had been either made in the times of blind panic or else they were small motions...his hands touching someone, holding them tightly. It was as though he had forgotten that he had a body to move. But as Ducky sat beside him, wishing that there was something he could do, Tim pulled his legs, his damaged, weak, atrophied legs to his chest and wrapped his normally limp arms around them. In so doing, he seemed to shrivel, shrink, and grow younger.

"Ducky?"

"Yes, Timothy?"

"Could you...leave me alone?"

In light of previous experience, it was a surprising request and Ducky hesitated.

"Please, Ducky. I need to...to...think."

"Very well, but I will be right outside the door."

"Thanks."

He watched Ducky leave. He recalled, now, moments when his legs had been exercised in an attempt to rebuild the muscles that had begun to wither away. He ran his hands up and down his legs, knowing that there wasn't enough strength in them to hold him up. He couldn't run as he wanted...but he didn't know where it was he wanted to go. All he knew was that in speaking to Ducky, he had awakened something inside him that was as insidious as the pain that attacked him at unguarded moments.

He had to get out, to go...to...escape. He wasn't sure what he was escaping, but the sensation born in him was nearly unbearable. It mingled with the pain, telling him that he _had_ to get away, that there was only one way to survive...by running, by fleeing...and that would save him.

They couldn't save him. They couldn't. All they'd done was save his body. They couldn't save his mind, couldn't save _him_. He had to get his name back. They kept using it and he craved hearing it directed at him, but it wasn't his, not really. Timothy McGee. He was...someone else.

...he was nameless.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Two weeks went by and Tim continued improving in his ability to keep his mind in the present. He was still on edge around the ones he'd "killed" but with only a fraction of the intensity that had marked his first days. Agent Lovitz had come to ask him what he had seen, but Tim had been unable to say anything beyond that he'd heard something and turned around. The voices he'd heard had been either whispered or horribly amplified. He didn't think he'd be able to recognize it if he heard it. He had never seen anyone.

His insistence that the man who had taken him was the real serial killer from the case three years ago intensified as he seemed to rejoin the real world. He could offer only mixed memories of words spoken to him in the depths of his pain, but the certainty never faded, and Gibbs promised to look into it. The fact remained that all the evidence in the murder of Lt. Steiner had pointed to her boyfriend Jamison Madsen. The near-hysterical declarations of a victim of torture were not enough to reopen the case.

Even so, Tim's improvement was such that they tentatively began his physical therapy. The atrophying of his muscles hadn't progressed to the point of serious degeneration but it would take some work to get them back up to par. His bedsores continued to heal. They transferred him to a regular room, albeit still in the psych ward. Things should have been looking up...and they were in a lot of ways. It was just that everyone knew something was wrong...they just didn't know what it was. They didn't know what was causing their anxiety. Tim himself, to all intents and purposes, was getting better...but something was wrong. In unguarded moments, the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, told them that he was suffering...and not telling _anyone_ what he was suffering or why.

Something was still wrong...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

_They weren't dead...yet. He was surprised but then, his captive had continually surprised him. To be honest, he hadn't been sure that he would even survive his three months of captivity. That was a large part of the reason for his release...release, not rescue. The need, the desire, to escalate had become too great and he knew that he would eventually kill his prisoner...and enjoy it far too much. That could not happen...not yet. There were things that needed to be done first. Oh, it would have been nice if he had played out the scene that had been so often shown to him, but then, he might need some encouragement in order to do so. _

_They would probably realize eventually, that there was no way that he had been seen by anyone except the one who had taken him. They were not completely stupid. It would be so obvious that the man who had called in was the same man they were seeking. He supposed he couldn't be too harsh. They were used to dealing with the common people, the ones who were tied down by their identities. They weren't accustomed to a man freed from his name, from the way society dictated what life was supposed to be like._

_Then, his magnanimity left him in a wave of anger. That was no excuse for their thievery, for their attempts to steal those he had collected. They had no right. No right at all. They would understand that soon enough...when they were killed by one of their own. Then, he smiled...no, by one who _used_ to be one of their own. They would see, in their final moments, that the man they thought was Timothy McGee, really belonged to him, not to them._

_Once collected, he did not give them up._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"I don't know what it is, but I don't like it," Naomi said firmly, watching Tim from across the room. He was in the psych ward's common area, staring at the wall. "He's not okay."

"I agree," Sam said. "I feel almost as though he is worse off now than he was before."

"It's not uncommon for victims of torture to seem emotionless. It's a way for them to deal with the pain and the memory of it."

"But that's not the best way to go, is it?"

Dr. Sakota sighed. "It's hard to say. For some, yes, it is. For some people, the pain of remembering is so great that it is the only way for them to function."

"But they can't hold it back forever."

"No, it's true. They can't. That's why they continue to have therapy and continue to speak with people who are experts. It helps them address the trauma in ways that help them face what happened slowly, in manageable chunks."

"You said that works for _some_ people," Naomi noted.

"Yes. Some. Not all. For others, hiding from the trauma causes it to fester, to get worse. At this point, I'm not sure which one describes your son. What I do know is that his body is healing and he is functioning well enough that he will be released and seen on an outpatient basis."

"I don't like the idea of him being...so...vulnerable, so open to...everything out there."

"He'll have to face the world outside this hospital eventually. If he leaves now, he'll have you all with him. That will help."

"But will it help enough?" Sam asked intently.

"Sometimes, Mr. McGee, you just have to try and see."

"And if that trying leads to his death? Will you simply say that it's a shame it didn't work out?"

"Sam!"

But Dr. Sakota smiled. "No, Mr. McGee. I won't say that. We do our best here. Sometimes, it's not enough, but other times it is. We will never give you less than our best...and I can't promise you more than that. I understand that this is hard for you, for _all_ of you, but putting off the moment when he has to confront the world again will only make that confrontation more difficult when it does come."

Sam nodded and rolled over to Tim while Naomi stayed to talk to Dr. Sakota. Tim wasn't doing anything. He seemed to spend a lot of time just sitting around. He didn't feel the need to speak or move...and if he was even thinking, he wasn't telling anyone the nature of his thoughts.

"Hey, Tim."

Tim stirred. His tendency to stare straight ahead had not been removed and his eyes didn't shift from the wall in front of him as he spoke.

"Hi, Dad. Are you guys done talking about me yet?"

Sam smiled. "Your mother isn't."

"That's Mom for you. She really can't accept the wreck of her son."

"Not a wreck."

"Jury's still out on whether or not repairs can be made...but Dad, I'm a wreck and everyone knows it."

"I think you're being too hard on yourself."

"I think I'm being honest."

"You know, Churchill said..."

That brought a rare smile. "Dad...Churchill?"

"Smart guy, that Winston Churchill...and he wasn't a bad politician either."

The smile stayed. "What did he say?"

"'We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.'"

The smile disappeared. "I'm not seeing the means of inspiration from this, Dad."

"Neither am I at the moment, I'll admit."

"How long did it take you?"

"The amount of time it took for me to look into your eyes and see the suffering I was causing you."

Tim moved his eyes away from the wall and looked at Sam, looked searchingly into his eyes.

"I'm not seeing any meaning."

Sam reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "Give it time."

The smile came back briefly. "Syrus said that 'what we fear comes to pass more speedily than what we hope.'"

And the contest began.

"True, but didn't Edmund Burke say that 'no passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear?'"

"Emily Dickinson," Tim said, his eyes bleak.

"'_One need not be a chamber to be haunted;  
__One need not be a house;  
__The brain has corridors surpassing  
__Material place.'"_

Sam's hand tightened on Tim's shoulder, but he only continued. "Marcus Aurelius: 'If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.'"

"Virginia Woolf: 'The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.'"

Sam was quiet for a long time, trying to think of something appropriate.

"Are you conceding?" Tim asked, silently begging him _not_ to.

"William Faulkner: 'Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain.'"

Tim swallowed. "What did Faulkner know?"

"Well, he certainly had a lot to say. Are you conceding?"

"I don't know if he's right. Nothing seems a lot better than pain."

"They're talking about releasing you. What do you think?"

"I don't know."

"You think you're ready?"

"I forget that I can move."

"What?"

Tim's face was back toward the wall. "When I sit in a chair...I forget that I can move. It's always a surprise that..." He stopped talking abruptly, his expression empty as it often did when he slipped back in time to his time in the chair. It was a terrifying moment. The only indication that something was really wrong was the sudden tightening of his fingers on the arms of the chair, turning his knuckles white.

Now, unfortunately used to Tim's flashbacks, Sam simply leaned forward and began talking to him, telling him he was safe, that he was not in that chair, that no one would hurt him. Tim came out of it after a minute, rubbing his hands nervously over the arms of the chair in which he was sitting and slumping lower.

"How long this time?" he asked, his voice resigned and tired.

"Only a couple of minutes."

He nodded and stared at the arms of the chair. "Faulkner didn't know anything. He had no idea. Nothing is better."

"Tim..."

"Nothing's better, Dad," Tim said and stood up in a jerky movement. His gait as he walked out of the common room had an awkwardness that couldn't be completely chalked up to his recovering leg muscles.

Sam watched him leave and ran his hands back and forth over the wheels of his chair, moving himself forward and backward in a nervous rocking motion.

"'Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.' Thomas Moore," he said to himself.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was that night that the McGees requested to speak to Tim's coworkers, his friends, to bring up their worries.

"We can't move into Tim's apartment," Naomi said with a slight smile. "For one thing it's too small."

"And it's a walk up," Sam added. "I can't exactly do that."

"Sarah's offered to stay with him, but we can't ask that of her."

"Nor of any of you," Sam said, "but we don't think Tim should be left alone. Not with how he is right now. What we were hoping is for a solution that perhaps we haven't thought of as yet."

There was a long silence as the others looked at each other and thought.

"How does Tim feel about leaving?" Abby asked.

"He doesn't."

"What do you mean?"

Naomi sighed. "Tim's...kind of embraced apathy. He doesn't seem to care about anything because, according to Dr. Sakota, it holds off the moment when he has to really confront what happened to him. We could force it on him, but that would do more harm than good. I'm just afraid that when it does hit him...he won't be able to tolerate it alone. I don't want him to have to."

"I believe I may have...a temporary solution to this dilemma," Ducky said.

"What?"

"I think that it might be well if Timothy stayed with me for a while, a few weeks, a few days. Whatever works best. I have a large house which is mostly empty. In fact, if you wish, you both could stay there as well. I don't have a ramp, but the back door is only a single step and it would be easy enough to get a temporary wheelchair ramp installed."

"I could get the wood for one. It wouldn't take much," Gibbs offered.

"Oh, no. We couldn't impose," Naomi said instantly.

"No imposition at all. I have so much room. It felt empty when Mother was here. Please, I insist."

"Are you sure, Ducky?" Sam asked. "The time would be indefinite...at best."

"Yes, and I will be here still," Ducky said smiling. "Think of it this way. You will be saving money on a hotel. Timothy will be accessible to all of us, no matter his degree of apathy. We will _all_ be able to fret over him to our hearts' content."

Sam and Naomi looked at each other, obviously tempted.

"I would love to have this house full...full as it has never been."

"That would be wonderful, Ducky," Sam said. "Honestly, I don't know what to say."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Naomi said with a tolerant smile.

"I'll let you know."

"We'll run it past Tim in the morning. Even if he doesn't care now, he should at least have the option of saying no," Naomi said.

"I agree," Ducky said.

The plan was met with so much relief that it seemed as though the decision had already been made...and so it had. For, as Naomi predicted, Tim simply shrugged when the suggestion was put before him and didn't seem to care either way. So Tony and Ziva invaded his apartment and packed some of his things, meeting Ducky with the intent of setting up a room where Tim might feel safe...where he might be able to really rejoin the humanity he'd temporarily shunned.

They could only hope that he would embrace the opportunity.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"We got some stuff from your apartment, Tim, just to make it seem more...homey," Abby said as she hovered nervously around him. "If you want anything else, we can go and get it."

"Thanks, Abby."

"Well, Ziva and Tony really did the breaking and entering. I just got them a key."

Tim nodded. "Thanks."

"Are you ready to go?" Gibbs asked.

"Sure." He got into the mandatory wheelchair and then looked up at Gibbs. "Have you found him yet?"

"Not yet...but we will."

Tim just nodded again. The sudden forward movement of the wheelchair tuned him into the fact that he was still nodding vaguely and he stopped. It was the nightmares. He couldn't stop them and it made it harder for him to stay focused on the real world around him when he was awake. He looked around and realized that he was nearly surrounded by his friends and family. It was like having his own personal bodyguards. That made him smile a little...until he remembered the reason _why_ he warranted having a bodyguard. The smile faded without anyone noticing it.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

_What was the best way to proceed, he wondered. In order to get the results he wanted, he'd have to have better access than nighttime visits...as he had thus far. Those were short, had to be since there were so often people watching him._

_He looked at the doors and was surprised to see the man he owned coming out in a cloud of people. He was sitting in a wheelchair. A car pulled up and he stood on his own. For just a moment, their eyes met. It didn't matter that he was far enough away that he couldn't even hear the voices. It didn't matter that he'd never seen his captor before. Something in him _knew_ that he was seeing his owner, his possessor. However, showing the same strength that had so surprised him at the beginning, he merely looked down and got into the car. _

_He was being released. Finally. It had taken long enough. It wasn't as though he was overly damaged...physically. He had practiced great restraint. He went to his car, ready to follow. It was too much to hope that he would be left alone in his apartment. That would make it too easy...besides, he didn't really want that. He wanted to get them all, not just the one he'd collected._

_They were trying to take him back...and that was not allowed._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Here we are, Timothy," Ducky announced, ever the gracious host. "You will be upstairs. Of necessity, your parents will be down here."

"Yes, okay."

"Why don't you go up and put your things away?" he suggested. "Your room is the first door on the right. The bathroom is right across the hall."

"Thank you, Ducky," Tim said and mounted the stairs, walking still with that same jerky gait, as though he felt something tripping him up at all times.

"I'll get your parents settled in. If you have any problems, just call."

"Thanks," Tim said again.

Ducky watched him go and then turned to Sam and Naomi. "You will be in the guest room down here. The bathroom is even wheelchair accessible...from when I assumed Mother would be needing it." He smiled. "So...this way."

"Did your mother die, Ducky? ...if you don't mind my asking," Naomi said.

"No, not yet, but it is to the point that I cannot give her the care she now needs. The doctors are estimating that she has less than a year left."

"I'm sorry."

"As am I...but that is life." Ducky walked ahead and opened a door. "This is your room for the duration of your visit. Please, make yourselves comfortable."

"Ducky, thank you," Sam said.

"My pleasure, I assure you." He left the McGees to unpack their things and returned to the living room where the others were waiting.

"Well?" Gibbs asked.

"They are all settling in," Ducky said.

"I'm taking the first night," Gibbs said. "Until this guy is caught...I have a feeling that McGee is right, but without evidence..."

"We should get back, then," Ziva commented. "We are not going to find him hanging out here."

"Just a second," Abby said and ran up the stairs.

"Abigail."

"I know, Ducky. Just give me a minute." She politely knocked on Tim's door. It was slightly ajar, but she wanted to give him the chance to choose for himself whether or not she could come in.

"Tim? It's Abby. Can I come in?"

"Sure." The voice was that same dull monotone that had taken over his regular speech, but she tried not to be bothered by it. That wasn't why she was there. She pushed open the door and saw Tim standing by the window, staring out into the trees. His bag sat unopened on the bed.

"Tim?"

He turned. "Hi, Abby. What can I do for you?"

"Could I give you a hug, Tim?" she asked and raised her arms questioningly.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face and he nodded. "Sure."

Abby walked to him and gently put her arms around him. After a moment, Tim reciprocated.

"Thanks, Tim," Abby whispered. "I've missed hugging you."

For a few seconds, Tim's arms tightened around her and he took a deep breath, but then, he pulled back.

"We're not giving up on you," she said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because you're not a hopeless case. That's why."

"I might be."

Abby shook her head vigorously. "No. You're not. We'll get the guy who did this. We'll get him...and you'll get better...maybe not in that order, though."

Tim smiled faintly again and turned back to the window.

"You should unpack, Tim."

"Yeah."

Abby looked at his back sadly before letting herself out. She walked down the steps, wiping her eyes.

"I'm ready. Let's go," she said.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was dark...throughout the house. Tim lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Light from the moon shone through the window, bathing his chest in dim light. He had started from sleep, thinking he heard someone in his room. Once his eyes were open, however, he couldn't make himself look anywhere but at the ceiling. He could stir himself to look elsewhere, but it took effort and he didn't want to expend the energy it would take at the moment.

_They have to die._

_There's no end...except in death._

The remembered words brought back the images of him killing the team and he tried to remember that they were still alive, that he'd never killed them at all. He tried to believe that he really was Timothy McGee, that he was safe, that...

_Your name is mine._

_Do not speak!_

With a sudden rush of energy, he pushed himself off the bed, pausing only briefly in a sitting position for standing up and looking around the room, trying to find his captor.

There was no one there.

With shallow breaths, he walked to the door, with every step expecting to be stopped, to be held back...to find that he had never left that chair, that he was still there. The door opened, almost of its own accord and Tim poked his head out into the hallway. The house was so quiet...and so big. He had been here before, of course, during the meat puzzle case, but it had been Kate and Tony who had been inside for more than two seconds. He just hadn't ever realized how big the house really was. He felt like an errant child sneaking out of bed in the night, hoping not to be caught by his parents.

Quietly, he walked to the stairs and noticed a flickering light from below. That would be...

_...the front room...there's a fireplace there._ Tim was almost proud of himself for being able to think of it. Who would be in there? He wasn't sure, but he didn't want to talk to anyone. He didn't need more reminders of how much he was lacking...that he wasn't really the person they wanted him to be.

He crept down the stairs, trying not to make any noise, not wanting to be heard. He made it to the bottom, but then didn't know where to go. A clock somewhere donged the hour. He froze in place, afraid for a moment, then turning around, looking for someone behind him.

No one was there.

He swallowed, feeling that omnipresent pain rising up in his head again. ...and suddenly, he didn't want to be alone there, standing in the dark...alone. He was drawn to the flickering light, to the warmth, to the possibility of human contact.

...but he stopped just outside the door, suddenly afraid again. Afraid to step inside, afraid of what he'd find, who he'd find...that no one would be there at all...that it would all be a dream and he wake up to find himself back in the darkness.

"Timothy?"

A hand on his shoulder...Tim collapsed to the floor, fighting for a breath that wouldn't seem to come.

"Timothy, I'm sorry. It's all right."

Two hands, one on each shoulder, keeping him from falling all the way down.

"Come on, Tim, open your eyes."

The voices were familiar. Did he know them?

"Open your eyes."

The words were so soft, so kind...believe? Or don't.

"Timothy, it's Ducky. You're all right."

He opened his eyes, staring down at the floor, becoming conscious of the hands holding him up. He wasn't in a chair. As he had so many times, he listened to the sound of his own breathing. It was jerky, noisy, with no real rhythm.

"Come on, Tim. It's okay."

Two voices. Ducky. Yes. Ducky was one. His eyes moved forward a little and he saw a pair of slippers.

"Look at me, Timothy. Believe what you already know."

Tim lifted his eyes and met Ducky's concerned gaze.

"You're wearing slippers," he gasped out.

Ducky smiled. "Yes, well, I tend to indulge in slippers at three in the morning."

"You feel like standing, McGee?" said the other voice, the one behind him.

Tim flinched away from the voice and toward Ducky.

"It's Gibbs, Timothy. Don't worry."

Hesitantly, Tim looked back over his shoulder, not entirely certain that seeing Gibbs made him feel any better.

"I can stand," he said softly and suited actions to words. Ducky helped more than he wanted to admit. He turned around and looked at Gibbs. "I forgot where I was."

"Come with us, Timothy," Ducky said and urged him to walk forward.

Tim didn't resist but walked into the front room and sat down on a chair, leaning forward so that his back didn't touch the chair. His arms were tucked close around his body so that they didn't touch the armrests.

"What brought you down at this hour?" Ducky asked, settling himself on a chair nearby. Gibbs also took a seat.

"Couldn't sleep," Tim admitted, his eyes darting around the room, seeing monsters in every shadowed corner.

"Why not?"

"I...I can hear...him...talking to me."

"What's he saying?" Gibbs asked.

"I have to kill you...it's the only way to stop it."

"To stop what, McGee?"

"The...the pain. It won't go away. It will never go away."

"It will in time, Timothy."

Tim began rocking slightly; he hated sitting down. Finally, he stood in an awkward movement almost like a bird launching itself into the air...only to find that it is chained to the branch. He walked disconcertingly close to the fire.

"I still feel it. Sometimes, it's not so bad...most of the time...it is...and I can't stop it. Can't stop hearing him. Can't stop remembering. I know I'm right...but I can't tell you why. I hear him...and I know he's right...but at the same, he's wrong." Tim turned away from the fire and faced Ducky and Gibbs. "I have to kill you, but I can't. I want to but I don't. You're alive and you're dead. I'm here and in there. All at the same time. ...and no matter where I am, it always hurts."

"Tim," Gibbs stood up.

He stepped back. "Don't call me that. That's not who I am...not right now. Right now, I don't have a name. He took it from me...and he won't give it back. That's what he does. He takes our names and adds us to the ranks...the people he's collected...the people he owns. That's what he's done...over and over. Over...and over...for years. He never gives up the people he takes. He never returns their names. They're his. They always are...always. Don't call me that."

"You think he took your name?"

"You weren't there. You don't know," he said. "I was there. I saw it happen. I saw it...heard it...felt it all. I know."

Ducky stood as well. Tim took another step back. He was now nearly on the hearth.

"You said that right now you don't have a name. Do you at other times?"

His eyes moved nervously around the room. His mood changing from fear to anxiety, almost as though he was worried that he'd be heard.

"S-Sometimes," he whispered. "Not always."

"He can't hear you, Timothy."

"He's always there."

"Not always."

He swallowed and the pain swelled. Gibbs took another step toward him. He stepped back...

...and tripped against the grating, which knocked him off his already-tenuous balance...

...and into the fire.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"Tim!" Gibbs sprang toward him and pulled him out, batting out the fires that had sprung up on his clothes. Ducky was right with him, examining the burns on his left arm and hand. All through it, however, he also noticed that Tim didn't make a sound. His eyes were open, wide with pain, but he did not scream...and he did not cry. He trembled.

"Oh, dear, Timothy," Ducky said and sighed.

Tim didn't make any response. He seemed to have shut down completely. His eyes were open, but he wasn't seeing.

There was a pounding of feet. "What happened?"

Gibbs looked up from where he was holding Tim. "He fell...tripped into the fireplace."

Naomi stared, almost disbelieving.

"He fell," Ducky said firmly. "Could you get a basin of cold water, please, Naomi? It will help."

Naomi nodded and ran to the kitchen, returning in moments with a bowl.

"Perfect. Just put your hands in here, my boy," Ducky urged and helped submerge the burned areas. "The burns don't look too serious, but we should get him checked out at the hospital just to be safe. Is that all right, Timothy? Timothy?" He sighed again. "All right, lad. Up you get."

Still trembling, Tim allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, the bowl being supported by Gibbs as he allowed his hands to stay submerged. Naomi kissed his forehead and whispered that she'd see him soon. Then, she ran back to the bedroom to make sure Sam was ready and could come as well.

The doors slammed, leaving the house...almost empty. The dogs were still there...but they weren't the only ones.

Someone...something was still there. Upstairs, a shadow moved, creeping out of its hiding place in a neglected dark corner of Tim's bedroom. As the shadow moved to the window, the cruel features of a man emerged out of the darkness. He smiled as he listened to the cars pull away from the house. They were trying to take him back, trying to steal back the name of Timothy McGee but it was clear that they had not yet succeeded. It was clear that he still owned him. With smooth, silent movements, he placed the necessary securities within the room, the things that would ensure he did not lose his ownership. A soft susuration of sound, almost inaudible, arose within the confines of the room. He pushed a button and the sounds increased to words, sentences.

_There's no way to stop it...only by them being dead._

_It's your fault._

_You killed them._

_You have to do it._

_Death is the only end._

_They all are dead._

_It's all your fault._

_It's all your fault._

_It's all your fault._

He turned the volume back down and put the equipment on a timer. That was a risk and so he'd have to be nearby in the evenings to make sure that he could override the settings if necessary. Then, taking advantage of the empty space, he crept down the stairs, held up only momentarily by the little yappy dogs who also dwelt in this large house.

Then, finally, the house was devoid of human presence.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"How did you say this happened, sir? Sir?"

"Uh, he tripped over the grating in my fireplace and fell," Ducky said when Tim looked incapable or uninterested in answering.

"What's wrong with him?" the doctor asked.

"Maybe I should speak to you privately," Ducky said and pulled her aside. "Timothy has been through...a rough few months. Severe psychological and physical trauma. In fact, he was just released from Bethesda yesterday. This incident has...put him into a mental state in which he can deal with it. He probably will not respond to your questions."

"Should he have been released?"

"Believe me, this is a significant improvement."

The doctor looked over her shoulder at Tim, still sitting and staring blankly on the bed, her expression one of disbelief.

"All right." She moved back and began treating Tim's burns. It didn't take very long. "Now, Timothy, you'll probably be in some pain for a few days, but these burns aren't very deep. Feel free to try ibuprofen or another over-the-counter painkiller. It should be enough. I'm giving you a prescription for some burn ointment. If there is any blistering, don't puncture the blisters. If you get any sort of yellow discharge, then you should come back in. Otherwise, keep them covered with gauze to avoid irritating them and let nature take its course."

Tim didn't answer, but then, the doctor hadn't _really_ been talking to him anyway. Naomi stood up and put an arm around Tim.

"Come on, honey. Let's go."

Tim stood, on his own and his eyes didn't seem quite so deadened. Naomi put an arm around his waist to lead him out. They were almost to the door when Tim stopped and looked back at the doctor.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome, Timothy. Good luck."

"I'll need it." Then, he allowed himself to be directed out of the room.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was 5:30 a.m. by the time they all got back to Ducky's house. Naomi took Tim up the stairs and sat with him until he fell asleep. When she came back, she found Sam with Ducky and Gibbs who were cleaning up the mess on the hearth.

"What happened?" Naomi asked. Before they could really answer, she continued, "I know he fell. Why?"

Ducky and Gibbs exchanged glances.

"I'm his mother. I've seen what he's like already. Don't hold it back from me."

"Very well. Timothy is worse than I had thought before."

"Worse how?"

Gibbs answered. "He can still hear his captor. He still believes that he has to kill us. He still thinks that the man who took him also stole his name and won't give it back."

"How did Dr. Sakota miss that?" Sam asked. "I know she has talked with him many times."

"In part, I believe that is because Timothy doesn't _always_ believe that. His symptoms are in a cycle of ebb and flow. Sometimes, he is almost who he was. Other times, he is the nameless statue Gibbs discovered in that chair. Other times, he is in between those extremes. This morning was the worst I'd seen. I myself had no idea he harbored that namelessness inside."

Sam leaned over and set the grating back up. "So..." he said slowly. "...even if you manage to find this nameless man who took our son...does that mean that he'll ever _really_ escape him?"

"It is possible, perhaps even probable that he will," Ducky said. "At this moment, all we can do is hope, try to help him, and hopefully avoid more incidents like the one that happened in this room. Timothy has felt enough pain of late, physical and otherwise. He does not need to have more."

No one could disagree with that assessment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The whispers began again, at first, almost inaudible, but growing louder and louder until they pulled him from his already restless sleep. His eyes opened.

_There is no end...except through death._

He looked straight ahead, hearing the voice that controlled his life. He wasn't tied down this time. He wasn't sitting in a chair. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled himself into a sitting position. As the voice, still a whisper, grew louder and louder, he began to lift his hands, lift them up through the air saturated with the commanding voice.

_Do not speak!_

His eyes tried to pierce the darkness, but he couldn't see anything. All he could do was hear the voice.

_It's all your fault._

His hands continued to move to his head and then, he placed them over his ears, gradually pressing harder and harder until his fingers were claws digging into his skull as he tried to block out the sound, the cause of all the pain he still felt.

_You killed them._

It never occurred to him to call for help.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Over the next few days, there was no improvement in Tim's status. In fact, he seemed to devolve. He visibly flinched at the sight of any of the team and his conversation back-pedaled almost to nothing. Ducky came out of his bedroom one night and saw Tim sitting on the stairs, his hands over his head, rocking in agitation. He seemed unable to explain what was wrong, although something was clearly hurting him. It took a while, but Ducky finally was able to convince him to go back to bed.

Another night, when Ziva was there on duty, Tim came down the stairs. Naomi and Sam had stayed up late talking to Ziva and had just begun to think about going to bed. Tim hadn't said a word. Instead, he had walked to the couch where Naomi was sitting. He sat down and then laid his head in her lap, whispering for her to keep the monsters away. She had kissed his forehead and let him fall asleep there. It had been enough to make her cry.

A week after Tim's release from the hospital, they were almost ready to take him back, his mental state was so far reversed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Once upon a time..._

_He could have laughed outright at how successful this was turning out to be...and they had no idea. Even with the timer set up, he found that he had to stick around to watch. He couldn't always see much, but every so often, he'd catch some movement, something to indicate that his hold was solidifying. ...and that team, that supposedly skilled team still hadn't found him, hadn't discovered anything. The speakers weren't that well hidden. Surely someone would see them, but no. They hadn't. They were trying so hard. He had to give them high marks for effort, even if execution was incredibly sloppy._

_Soon. Soon it would be time to end it, end it as he had promised._

_With death._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We've had no hits on the BOLO for Egner," Lovitz said. "I gave the information we have to Madsen's lawyer, but he wasn't too impressed, although he did thank me for the effort. No judge is going to take the word of a torture victim who can't give reliable testimony. That's just the way it is. I'm sorry. That's not enough for reasonable doubt."

"Well, we've done the best we can for him," Geri said. "We'll just have to catch Egner and see what comes of it."

"And what do we have?" Gibbs asked. He and Ziva (and Tony, even though technically he wasn't cleared for duty just yet) had basically joined Lovitz' team while they were searching for Egner.

"Not much. The name renting the building is bogus. In fact, the person, it turns out, has been dead for twenty years," Lara reported.

"What's the name?" Tony asked.

"Uh, let me see." She looked at her notes. "Jodi Evans. She was kidnapped, missing for five years and then her body was found in Massachusetts, outside Boston."

"How did they identify her?"

"The police report says that they didn't at first, not for a couple of years after the body was found. All her teeth had been removed and there were no clothes and no identifiable remains."

"Her teeth had been removed?"

"Yeah, and the skin was all gone; so no fingerprints, either." Her voice trailed off.

Tony stood up, looking at Lovitz who was getting it. Geri and Lara were only a step behind. It was a toss-up as to who followed the conclusion and reached its end first.

"Egner. Serial kidnapping and murder," Lovitz said.

"McGee said that he took their names, their identities," Ziva said in a whisper. "Adding to the ranks."

"If that's the case," Adam began, slowly, working it out as he went along, "why did he leave Agent McGee alive?"

The looks everyone turned on him made him blush, but he kept going.

"I mean, let's say, for now, that Egner is the killer, that he's killed numerous people including Lt. Steiner and this Jodi Evans. He's probably killed other people, too. Adding to the ranks, you said. Why would he not kill McGee, then?"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Tonight, it would be tonight. Enough control had been regained. All that remained was to direct that control...and to manufacture the appropriate situation. It would have to go down right, but he'd been planning this for days. All the remained was to put the plan into action. There was some time. He watched the agitated movements with something akin to glee. He knew the where, the who, the how...the when. No need for delay._

_You are mine._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was pacing back and forth in the backyard. Every so often, he would stop, look over his shoulder and stare at some distant point. Then, he resumed his pacing. He was just shy of talking out loud to people who weren't there...or to himself. His movements were too awkward, too jerky, even now. Naomi and Sam were watching him with tears in their eyes. If he got any worse, they'd have to take him back to the hospital, just to keep him from hurting himself...or someone else.

"No change?" Ducky murmured from behind them.

Naomi swallowed her tears. "No, Ducky...at least, not for the better."

"You're going to have to consider sending him back."

"I know. I don't want to."

"I don't relish the idea either," Ducky agreed, "but it may have to be done. I don't understand this degradation, this erosion of the progress that had been made."

"I hate to say it, but this is all so unfair," Sam whispered. "I hate to see such a brilliant man reduced to..." He gestured eloquently at the pacing figure.

"I must return to NCIS. As much as it pains me to leave you here, I do, as Director Vance so kindly reminded me, have a job to do. There's an agent on duty. If you have any problems, he's right out front and will be until this evening."

Naomi nodded. "Could you ask the others to come over tonight, as well? I'd like their input."

"Certainly."

"Thank you, Ducky."

"I only wish it was deserved thanks."

"It is."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Abby, why do you keep looking at this thing?" Tony asked.

Abby looked up from the chair which had been set up in the evidence garage ever since Tim's rescue.

"Our only lead came from this chair. Maybe I can find another one."

"And?"

"And...I haven't yet...but I know..." Abby winced. "...I know more or less what Tim went through."

"So do I."

"I know more," Abby said and not in a boastful way...in a way that said she almost wished she didn't.

"What do you know?"

"Well, the setup is clever, but not incredibly sophisticated." She began walking around it. "It's wired to deliver electric shock at low levels. It would cause pain but not real damage, unless it was too prolonged. Because the chair is made out of metal, it would conduct the electricity all over his body...except across his heart, which could cause defibrillation, even death. Obviously, that didn't happen; so he managed to work around that. That pipe you said was above his head? That was for water. He'd soak...Tim...in water to increase the conductivity. It also had the effect of making him cold. The straps made it impossible for Tim to move. Even his head would have been forced to look straight ahead."

Tony was listening in morbid fascination. It was true that he had known all of this before, but he was now getting the scientific side of it.

"Then, you have the speakers." She walked over to them. "Stand by the chair, Tony."

Tony walked over.

"Listen." She pushed a few keys.

Barely audible whispers sounded as though they were right beside his ear and he instinctively looked, even though he knew it was Abby. Then, without warning, the volume changed.

"Made you jump!" Abby's voice boomed.

Tony jumped.

"This stuff is high end, for the people who want to feel like they're in whatever movie they're watching," he said.

"Yeah. Not cheap, and he probably set it up himself. He seems to have a general working knowledge of electronics and stuff like that, but he's not an expert."

"He was enough of one to torture McGee," Tony observed, staring at the chair.

"Yeah."

There wasn't much else to say.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim?"

It's a voice he knows and he pauses in his attempt to get away from what he knows he can't escape.

"Mom."

"Why don't you come inside now?"

Inside. Back to the voices, back to the memories, back to...to having to kill them. Back to the pain...although he knows that the agony won't stop just because he's left the house. He feels it all the time now, like the monsters he used to fear as a child. They're always there, even when you can't see them. There's the man he's seen before. Somehow, he knows that it's his captor. He knows it because of how he stares...as if he's sucking away whatever measure of self he has regained, taking it all back.

"Tim?"

"I don't want to go."

"Go where?"

He doesn't even know what he means anymore. The words he wants to say are as blocked in his mind as the tears he cannot cry.

"Do not speak."

"Tim, please."

He looks at his mother. She is...in another world from where he lives. There was a moment once when he had felt as though he might make it back there...but not anymore. Now, it's just the nameless void in which he exists...until death.

"He's always here."

"No. No, he's not."

She doesn't see him. Perhaps they really are in a different world. He longs for oblivion to get rid of the pain, the fear, the agony of being torn to pieces.

"Please, come inside."

He walks because he has no other choice. He makes no decisions for himself. His life is in the hands of others. ...of one other.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_The sun is setting. Finally. He is eager. He has never allowed one of his nameless to live so long after taking them. He begins a stealthy approach to the house. He needs to get inside before the others get there. Inside and up the stairs. He won't say anything. He has seen him for days now and has never said a word to anyone...at least, not a word than anyone understands. He smiles. _

_He reaches his chosen doorway. Once inside, he is committed. There is no backing out and postponing the day. He slips noiselessly inside. The dogs are there, but they don't bark. He's taken the time to befriend them. He walks through the house, listening for the parents. He turns a corner and comes face to face with his possession. It is the first time he has been that close to him in daylight. They stare at each other for a long time. He smiles and watches as the life, feeble to begin with, flickers and dies._

_He leans forward. "Go."_

_He turns around and walks away, back to the kitchen where his parents are preparing dinner. As he continues on his way, he hears a soft voice say._

"_He's here."_

_It makes him pause...but then, it is all he can do not to laugh as he hears the lying comfort given by the mother. Oh, what she'd do if she really believed what her son was saying. Mothers. Even when they think they're helping, they can't do anything for their children. He walks up the stairs to the bedroom, knowing that all he has to do now is wait. He is in position and no one else will come in here._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They had eaten, cleaned up the kitchen and dining room and now they were sitting together in the front room. Tim was up in his room...which was just as well. He seemed to be at the point where he wouldn't really be listening to them anyway.

"What is left to do?" Naomi asked, starting the conversation.

"If you take him back to the hospital...does that mean there's no hope?" Abby asked.

"There is _always_ hope, my dear," Ducky said. "We maybe just have to acknowledge that he is not yet well enough recovered to deal with the world as it is."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_You know what has to be done."_

_He was curled up on the bed, hands to his ears. The voice was coming from the speakers...but also from his captor. He could still hear._

"_You know you have no choice."_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"There is something wrong with him, we know that," Ziva said. "But I do not believe that being back in the hospital is the answer."

There was a moment of silence.

"You know..." Sam began and then paused, looking sheepish, but he went on, "Arthur Miller once said, 'I think now that the great thing is not so much the formulation of an answer for myself, for the theater, or the play-but rather the most accurate possible statement of the problem.' So...what is the problem? How can we help Tim if we don't even really know what's wrong?"

"We do know what's wrong," Gibbs said.

"I don't know if we do," Sam disagreed. "He was getting better, but now he's getting worse. Why? What is it about this place that has made him get worse? Dr. Sakota has said that there is nothing she can identify that is causing it. Tim should be getting better, but he's not."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Stand up."_

_Powerless to disobey, he stood and held the gun tightly in his hand. He looked at his captor, his eyes hating what was happening, but his body ready to do what was told to him._

"_It's all your fault," the recorded voice whispered._

"_You have to kill them. That's the only way it can end."_

"_They have to die," he whispered in agreement._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

A gunshot echoed through the house. Immediately, The NCIS agents were on their feet with guns drawn. The others crouched down.

"Ducky?" Gibbs asked, tersely.

"There are no guns in this house, Jethro...or rather, I should say that there weren't."

"Egner," Ziva said.

Tony, in spite of his weakened collarbone, had also drawn his gun. "It has to be, Boss."

"Okay. You guys stay down here," Gibbs instructed.

Naomi stood up to protest.

"You are not trained. You will only be in the way," he said. "Ducky, keep them all down here. You too, Abby," he added, knowing that she'd want to go.

She smiled weakly in acknowledgment of his order.

"Call for backup."

Carefully, the trio walked to the stairs and climbed up. As they left the others behind, Gibbs could have sworn he heard another quote coming up behind them.

"'One is not exposed to danger who, even when in safety, is always on their guard.'"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_He heard them coming and knew it was almost over. He looked over and saw the gun, ready to be fired again, aimed at the door. He might need some encouragement when the time came, but he would do it._

_He would kill them...and then himself. More added to the ranks._


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

The door was slightly ajar and there was a sound inside...whispering, just barely not intelligible. With a growing sense of horror at what that might mean, Gibbs gestured for Tony and Ziva to take up positions on either side of the door. Then, with a swift motion, he pushed it open. What they saw momentarily stopped them in their tracks. Tim was standing by his bed, a gun in his hand, pointing it...at them. Just out of reach, there was a man, his face in shadow, except for his mouth which was curled in a smile. He also held a gun, but his was pointing at Tim. Then, they noticed the whispers. It was the same things Tim had been telling them. He _had_ been hearing them...really hearing, not just remembering them...and they had simply dismissed his words as those of a broken mind. ...but there was no time to dwell on their terrible mistake, no time to fix it. They just had to deal with the fallout.

"Tim, put the gun down," Gibbs said.

_It's all your fault._

The gun wavered but otherwise didn't move.

_There is no end...except in death._

"You don't understand," Tim whispered. "I have to."

_Do not speak._

"That's right. You do have to. It's the only way to stop all this from happening."

_It's all your fault._

"Don't listen to him, Tim," Gibbs said urgently.

Tim's eyes wavered between his friends and the man who controlled him. The gun did not.

_You killed them._

"McGee, that's only a recording," Tony said.

Their guns were all pointed at the man...at Gary Egner.

_It's all your fault._

"Don't listen to them," Egner said, his voice soft, mesmerizing. "You know the truth. You can hear it all the time, can't you?"

"Yes," Tim whispered.

_You killed them._

"McGee, look at me," Ziva said, her voice soft but not enticing like Egner's. Hers was full of entreaty. "Please, McGee."

Tim's eyes focused on her for a brief moment.

"This man has only lied and hurt you. You should not listen to him."

Over the top of her statement, Egner began to speak again. The smile on his face widened, as if he was eager to continue the battle of wills, confident that he'd win.

"How many times will you kill them, face the pain of killing them? How many times can you stand killing your team?"

_Death is the only end._

"I can't," Tim said, agony lacing his words. The gun shook in his hands.

"That's right. You can't. You have to end it," Egner said. "It has to end now."

"Tim, you can choose what to do," Gibbs said. "You have a choice. You never killed us, not once. You don't have to do it now."

"How long are you going to live with the pain?"

_It's all your fault._

"It's all my fault."

"No, McGee!" Tony said. "No! It's not your fault. The only person at fault here for your pain is Egner."

For the first time, Egner's smile faded. "That is not my name."

"Isn't it?" Gibbs asked. "According to the fingerprint you left on that chair, your name is Gary Daniel Egner. Mother was a drug addict. Raised in foster care."

"There's no Gary here," Egner said. "That name means nothing. I left it behind. A name only hems us in, holds us back. It's when the name is gone that we have power."

"Who is we?"

"All of us...but most people don't understand that."

"You hear him, McGee?" Tony asked. "He's just a guy who doesn't like the name he had. That's no reason for you to listen to him."

The volume of the whispers began to increase...as did Egner's smile.

_You killed them._

_It's your fault._

_Death is the only end._

_You have to do it._

_There's only one way to stop it...by them being dead._

Tim's whole body was shaking.

"Only way to stop it," he repeated, his voice shaking as much as the rest of him.

"No, McGee," Ziva said, her voice louder, her eyes roaming the room, tracking in on the speakers that had been only slightly hidden from view and she cursed their complacence anew. "There is another way. Do not listen to him. He does not care about you. He only wants the pain to continue. We are trying to stop it."

"Can't stop it. No one can."

"The only way to stop it is through death."

It was a strange tableau. No one was moving from their place. Tim stood shaking, aiming his gun at them from his corner. Egner stood in another corner, his face just barely not lit by the light from the hallway. Tony, Ziva and Gibbs in the doorway, their guns pointing at Egner. No one daring to move in case someone else fired. The one unknown was Tim...and that was why they didn't dare shoot. Tim's mind was such that they couldn't be sure what he'd do. It should have been four against one...but it wasn't.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

He can see them all standing there...but the order is wrong. Gibbs is supposed to be on the right, Tony in the middle and Ziva on the left. Why is the order wrong?

There are too many voices. The whispers roar louder than everyone else's words. Death. Yes. Death is what will stop all the voices. It will stop the pain. It will stop the agony of not knowing. It will save him from all of this.

"_Please, Tim. Please, listen to me."_

"_They're already dead. How many times will you kill them?"_

"_We're not dead. Don't listen to him."_

_It's all your fault._

"_You're mine. You know it."_

"_McGee..."_

"_Tim..."_

"_Mine."_

_It's all your fault._

It's too much. The pain is too much. He can't bear it. It has to come out...somehow. He has to relieve the pressure, the pain in his head.

"STOP!" he screams, the pain coming out in an extended shriek that seems to tear his vocal cords. "STOP!"

The voices stop...all except that incessant whispering that never lets him rest. He stares wildly around the room, seeing them all arranged. He can't do it. He can't kill them, but it has to stop.

Then, distantly...he hears another voice.

"No! Tim!"

Mom. Mama always could save him from the monsters.

He can hear her shouting from downstairs. Downstairs? Yes. He's in Ducky's house. Ducky... yes. He's not in the chair. Mama was never near the chair. She couldn't save him from the monsters because she wasn't there when they started attacking him. She's not here now...but she's nearby. Suddenly, he sees, as if in a vision, his friend from so many years ago, stuck in the car, strapped in as the other car hit him. Frame by frame, the image advances. His face changes from a smile to shock to...to something else. To something that should not be seen on a child's face...least of all by another child. To the kind of expression you only see when the monsters come on the screen and you don't know they're only on TV. He had seen monsters. Second by second, the slowest ten seconds ever. He watches his friend being carried away by the monsters only he can see. Carried away. Taken. The car looked like monsters had attacked it. Monsters with big sharp claws.

...the kind of claws digging into his brain.

_Weak. Weakness is not tolerated. You do not cry._

The injunction that had been emphasized by pain...and was the cause of pain.

_You do not cry._

The pain is so intense that he can't even see, not with his eyes. He can hear the whispers all around him, the voice, the real voice of his captor, the voices of people who care, people he'd killed...but they are still alive. He can't understand. All he knows is that he can't bear the pain anymore. He knows that he has to stop the pain because it is killing him.

_The only way to end it is through death._

_You do not cry._

He becomes aware of another sound. It is him. He is still screaming and his breathing which has always told him so much about his situation is erratic, loud inhalations followed by even louder screams.

_You do not cry._

The monsters with their sharp claws that can rend even metal are digging into him, digging into his brain, tearing him apart.

_You do not cry._

It has to stop. He has to stop it. There's only one way. In a moment of relative clarity, he knows...

_You do not cry._

...and he fires. He fires the gun once. Then, twice. And again...and again. He fires until the bullets run out. He barely hears the other bullet. There is only silence.

He has stopped screaming. The whispers are gone._ The whispers are gone. _Silence. Blessed silence.

...but there is still pain. Why is he still in pain?

_You do not cry._

"Tim?"

He listens to his breathing. It is hard to hear, sometimes almost absent, other times carried on a whimper. It has no rhythm, nothing to make it make sense.

"Tim."

Slowly, vision returns. He is staring at the space where there used to be a man standing...used to be. Now the space is empty. The gun in his hand is pointing at the empty space...toward blood spattered on the wall. Slowly, more slowly than the returning sight, his eyes move from straight ahead and down. The man is there. Not moving. He is still. He is silent.

"Dead."

"Yes, Tim, he's dead."

He isn't even aware of having said the word out loud. He stares, his arm extended, the gun sitting in his hand...the empty gun.

"It has to stop."

"It's over, Tim."

"It has to stop."

"Tim, let me take the gun, okay?"

A hand, gentle, on his arm, lowering it, taking the gun from slack fingers. He does not resist, does not really even understand why he is taking the gun.

"Why does it still hurt?"

"What hurts?"

"Are you hit, McGee?"

Then, he is aware of another pain, different and less intense than the pain in his head. He looks down toward the fire burning in his side. He touches it with his hand...and his hand turns red. Then, he looks up.

"Make it stop."

Darkness rushes in and as he feels himself fall, he realizes that he has not hit the floor. He is safe. He makes a desperate plea.

"Stop it."

Then, all is darkness.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Slowly, oh so slowly, his mind creeps up tentatively from the depths, not knowing what to expect with this awakening. He feels battered, weak...and there is a pounding in his head that cannot be explained by physical ailments. He feels that nothing can be gained by pretending he is asleep. That's never helped him in the past. He opens his eyes, only to have them rebel and fall closed again.

"Timothy?"

There's that name again. He's almost certain it belongs to him...almost.

"Timothy, are you awake?"

Another try at opening the eyes. Briefly, a known face appears before the darkness falls again.

"Timothy!"

He can't keep his eyes open, but he is awake.

"Ducky," he says, his voice very soft...and slurred.

"Yes, lad. Yes." Ducky sounds overly relieved. "Welcome back. Your parents...I finally convinced your mother to join your father for the night and get some sleep. She may never forgive me."

"What?" He tries to open his eyes again...and this time, they stay open longer. He has time to take in a hospital room before they close.

"How are you feeling?"

He tries to figure out how to answer that question. What comes out reveals his uncertainty.

"He...I...is he...did...what happened?" He tries to open his eyes and keep them open...but has to settle for narrow slits.

"Timothy, this perhaps is not the time to discuss exactly what happened last week."

Time...more time lost. How? Why? "Week?"

He is answered only by a sigh and from somewhere...he does not know where, he manages to find the strength to open his eyes all the way and stare at Ducky.

"Did I kill them?" That thought takes precedence over every other thought. While he can still see with horrible clarity the damage he inflicted over and over again, he needs to know if he did it one last time...the time that mattered. "Ducky." His voice is so soft and he cannot find the energy to make it louder, but he does not look away.

"No, Timothy. No, you did _not_ kill your friends. They are alive and...more or less well, although they all feel terrible...as do I...for our lamentable lack of concern."

"Not your fault. Mine."

"No, Timothy. It was not your fault. What happened...it should not have happened. You should never have been placed in that position, if we had listened to you when you told us he was talking to you..."

He closes his eyes voluntarily this time...to avoid thinking about his captor.

"He is dead, Timothy."

A fragment of memory returns. He sees the gun moving from his friends to...to that dark shadow. He feels himself pull the trigger again and again.

"I killed him."

"Yes." Ducky has never sounded so old.

Whether that is good or bad, he can't decide...but something else...something worse takes his attention.

"Why won't it stop?" he asks and opens his eyes once more.

"What?"

"It still hurts. It won't go away."

"He managed to shoot you before he died. It was a wild shot and hit you in the side."

The pain in his side...but that means nothing. "No. Not that."

He watches Ducky lean over and, in a paternal gesture, gently push the hair off his forehead.

"Up here, then?"

He nods.

"That, I do not think the doctors can heal. It will have to come from you...and it will take time."

"I'm tired."

"Then, sleep, lad. Just be sure and wake up again. Your coma caused us all no end of worry."

He isn't sure that he wants to wake up again, but he knows that he wants to sleep.

"Someone will be here with you at all times. Do not fear to awaken. You are safe...and I hope you can believe me even if our former reassurances were lies."

He begins to fall back into the darkness but he struggles to stay awake for just a moment longer. He looks at Ducky and then, reaches out with a weak hand.

"I believe you." His eyes close and he sleeps, feeling unaccountably safe.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim?"

He opened his eyes at the voice.

"Mom."

In a moment, before he had time to register anything more than the presence of his parents in the room, he was enveloped in a hug that only a mother can give.

"Oh, Tim. We thought we'd lost you for good."

He sighed and went limp in her arms.

"Mom, it still hurts."

"What hurts, Tim?" Sam asked.

He looked beneath Naomi's arm at Sam.

"I can't...it builds up...and I can't let it out. That only makes it hurt more."

"Why?" Naomi asked.

He couldn't think of how to explain it...and so fell back on the words that came to his mind so easily.

"Do not speak. Do not cry. Weakness is not tolerated. No tears."

"No, Tim. No, that is _not_ true. Those things he said. He's wrong...and he'll never hurt you again. Never." Naomi's arms tightened around him.

"I can't...let it out. I can't, Mama."

"You can...when you're ready to. Just know that you can, that he won't hurt you, Tim. He won't."

"I'm tired."

"Then, sleep. We'll be here for you...and if we're not, your friends will be. You're not alone."

Secure in his mother's arms, feeling his father's hand holding his, he slept.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim was sleeping restlessly when the team came to see him. Abby was there, also asleep, leaning on the bed, holding his hand. Not wanting to disturb the pair, Tony, Gibbs and Ziva settled on the chairs available.

"Why is he still sleeping so much?" Ziva asked in a low voice.

"Don't ask me," Tony said. "I'm not an expert."

Tim's eyes opened and he looked at them all, at first lazily, and then with the fear that had become so depressingly common...but then...the expression in his eyes changed, just a little...there was a tentative hope.

"You're...alive?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

Gibbs smiled. "Yes, McGee. We're alive. Every one of us."

"I was...going to kill you...again."

"No, not again," Ziva said, "because you never killed us. Not once."

Tim looked at them all and then settled his gaze on Tony. "I shot you."

Tony smiled. "Yeah, but you didn't kill me...and you didn't even mean to. It hardly counts."

Tim did not smile. His eyes closed tightly and he brought his free hand to his head, rubbing his forehead roughly.

"It doesn't make sense," he whispered. "Why doesn't it make sense?"

The answer was swift. "Because you're still healing," Gibbs said. "It will take time."

"We should have realized what the problem was," Tony said. "I'm really sorry, Probie."

Tim's eyes didn't open, but he shook his head. "Not your fault."

"Yeah, it is. We weren't really listening to you."

"No," Tim said, emphatically. "No."

His voice was enough to wake up Abby. She blinked a few times and then smiled at Tim, admirably holding herself back from suffocating him in her joy.

"I'm glad you're awake, Tim," she said and unassumingly pulled his hand down from his head, massaging it gently.

"It's not going away. It won't go away. It can't."

The words had been said often enough that they now knew more or less what he meant, even if they couldn't make him believe them. ...that didn't stop them from trying.

"It can," Abby said. "It will...someday. I know it will."

Tim looked at her and then back at the team, as if afraid that they would disappear...or die.

"She's right, McGee," Gibbs said. "It will."

"The pain won't stop."

"It will. When you can believe us."

"I want to," Tim said, his voice pathetically soft. "I want to believe...but I can't."

"We were wrong before, McGee," Ziva said. "I am so sorry for that. We were wrong and it was almost too late when we realized."

"I wanted to kill you," he said. "I just wanted it to stop. I wanted you dead...so you couldn't die anymore."

"I know."

"I killed him instead."

"Yeah," Tony said, but he didn't look happy about it. "Yeah, he's dead."

"Then, why won't the pain go away?"

"It doesn't work like that, McGee. It never does."

Tim's eyes were pleading, and the sheer immensity of the damage that had been done to him suddenly hit them, illustrated by the pain in his eyes, a pain that had not lessened one jot in the month since he had been rescued. The physical manifestations are mostly gone, or faded to scars. The one thing that remained as an indicator of what he'd gone through was the gnarled pinky. Although the bones were finally being allowed to heal, there had been too many breaks and too much time where the bone had been allowed to heal crookedly before being rebroken. It would never look the same again.

The other thing that told them just how damaged Tim had been in that room...and how close he had come to killing them...was where he'd shot Egner. Some of the shots had been wide, of course, but in general, they were grouped in three areas: his face, his neck and his heart...the three places Tim had said he'd shot Gibbs, Tony and Ziva. That realization had created a feeling of...disquiet in them. Tim really was very damaged, and almost to the point of no return. If Egner had succeeded in getting Tim to kill them, it would have resulted in a permanent breakdown. There was no way he could have survived the knowledge that he'd killed them again.

"I want it to go away."

"It will. Someday," Gibbs said. "The pain always leaves eventually. Sometimes, it takes a while."

The strange thing was that Tim didn't seem nearly as on edge as he had been...but he wasn't really better. He was just...hurting. Hurting in that way that no one could help. They didn't completely understand it, nor could they. Tim couldn't explain it, not in his current state. They only had glimmers of the man he had been...and whether those glimmers would increase was still very much in question.

"I saw monsters," Tim whispered, not really talking to them anymore.

Abby looked at the others worriedly, but Tim kept speaking.

"You can't see them most of the time, but they're there. I didn't see them at first, but Jeff saw them. Only monsters could make his face go like that. Then, I saw them...and I felt them. They wouldn't go away...and I knew they wouldn't. That's all there was. Then...then, I thought they would be gone...but they weren't. They keep coming back. The monsters don't stay away anymore. I want the monsters to go...but they won't. They won't." His voice was so soft...and almost demented.

Tony surprised everyone, probably even himself, by sitting beside Tim and speaking earnestly.

"Tim, the problem isn't that the monsters won't go away, but that you can't let them yet. You're keeping them here...even if you don't want them to be in your head. What happened...it was so bad that you...you _need_ the monsters to help you. It's not fun. It's not pleasant...but right now, that's what you _need_. When you can...you'll let them go...and they will leave. But not yet."

Tim stared at Tony, almost as if he'd never seen him before. Tentatively, Tim reached out and touched, unerringly, the place where he'd shot him.

"You shot me, Tim. I won't deny it. I won't lie, but I won't say that you meant to...because you didn't. No matter what your twisted mind was thinking at that moment, you were not trying to kill us when the gun went off. ...and even with that psycho saying all those things to you...even with that sick recording playing in your ears incessantly for days...even though we didn't get it...you still didn't try to kill us, not even then. You didn't want to...and you didn't. That tells me that you'll make it. It might take a long time, but we're willing to wait. I promise."

Tim just stared at him...for a long time. Then, he nodded. "I believe you," he whispered.

"Do you really?"

He nodded again.

"Okay."

"...but I don't want to hurt anymore."

"We'll do our best, McGee," Gibbs said, "but there's only so much we _can_ do."

Tim looked around at them all. Then, he suddenly leaned forward and grabbed Gibbs' hand.

"Don't die. Please, don't die."

Gibbs hesitated. There was no guarantee that any one of them wouldn't die from...just from being alive in the world...but Tim wasn't in a state where he could understand that.

"We won't, McGee. We won't die."

The pain in his eyes faded just a little bit.

"I believe you," he said softly.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

It was three in the morning when the phone rang. Ducky had been dead to the world and only rejoined it unwillingly. His first conscious thought was that it would be the nursing home, calling about his mother, and he came awake quickly.

"Hello, yes?"

"_I woke you up. I'm sorry."_

Ducky blinked a few times and looked at the clock. "Timothy?"

"_I don't want to stay here anymore."_

Ducky's mind was only slowly catching up with what Tim was saying...because it didn't make any sense.

"Why not?"

"_It's not right."_

"Timothy...where do you want to go? To your home?"

"_No. Not there. I need to be...where he was. I need to be there, but I can't remember where it was."_

"Who? Your captor? Why, Timothy?"

"_It's just a room. I never saw where it was, and I can't remember. All the buildings...they look the same on the outside."_

"Timothy, where _are_ you?"

"_It was dark in that room, Ducky. So...so dark...except for the light. I couldn't even close my eyes. He wouldn't let me."_

"Timothy. Talk to me. Are you not at the hospital?"

"_I didn't want to be there."_

"What about Abigail? Was she not there with you?"

"_I didn't want to be there."_

"Does Abigail know you are gone?"

"_No."_

"Timothy, I don't think it would be wise to go anywhere right now. You are not yet healed."

"_It's always going to hurt. I don't even remember how it feels to not hurt."_

"Timothy, where _are_ you?" Ducky asked, repeating Tim's name so often that he felt like a parent lecturing a recalcitrant child. He wanted to make sure Tim didn't forget who he was again, but he didn't feel like Tim was really listening to him.

"_Outside. I can hear myself breathe...and I don't think I'm afraid right now."_

"You don't _think_ you're afraid?"

"_I never know...but my body knows. It knows when I'm afraid. I can tell."_

"Timothy, are you on the street?"

"_Yes."_

"Where?"

"_Outside."_

"Are you near the hospital?"

"_Yes. I'm tired already."_

"Timothy, you need to go back."

"_No. I can't stay there anymore. It's not where I need to be. It's the wrong place."_

As much of a relief as it was to have Tim finally speaking in complete sentences, they were not sentences that made sense. Ducky was trying to get dressed while speaking to Tim on the phone. He wasn't especially adept.

"Timothy, why do you need to be where he was?"

"_It's the only way. I have to get it out...but I can't, not there. Not here. Somewhere. Somewhere I can."_

"Get what out?"

"_I want the monsters to go away. I want the pain to stop. I want this to be done. I want to stop seeing them die. I want to stop hearing the words. I have to be where he was."_

"Timothy, if I take you there, would you tell me where you are now?" Ducky wasn't sure that was a good idea, but it was the only way he could think of at the moment to get Tim to tell him where he was.

"_I'm outside. On a bench."_

"I need your address. What street are you on?"

"_I'm outside."_

Finally, Ducky was able to leave his bedroom feeling as though he was presentable. He thumped down the stairs and slipped outside without waking the McGees sleeping, _finally_ sleeping in the spare room. He decided to drive to the hospital first and work his way out from there. For some reason, it felt wrong for him to tell anyone, to call anyone. Tim had called _him_ out of all the people he could have. Whatever the reason for it, Ducky decided that he would trust that there was _something_ resembling normal thought processes in Tim's head...perhaps deep inside.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

He stared back and forth, not sure where to go. It was a little chilly, but he was outside and that felt nice. He had tried to explain to Ducky why he needed to leave, but he couldn't get the right words out and he was sure that Ducky didn't really understand.

He sat and looked up at the sky. He could faintly pick out a few stars.

_I like the stars._ He focused on the stars he could see and surprised to realize that he knew which constellation the stars belonged to. Somewhere inside him was the person he used to be. He just couldn't touch that person, not right now. Not yet. ...but he wanted that person back. He kept trying to show him that it was safe to come out again, that the danger had passed...but the monsters just wouldn't leave...because _he_ was still there. That man, that monster in human form who had whispered in his ear, who had told him so many things that were apparently wrong.

He was trying to believe that they were wrong...but it was hard to know for sure.

An old car drove past him, slowed down, reversed and stopped in front of him.

"Timothy!"

Tim pulled his gaze from the sky and stared at Ducky, wondering who it was that Ducky saw. Did he really see Timothy or did he see someone else, someone he _hoped_ was Timothy?

"Will you come with me, Timothy?"

He nodded. "We're going to where he is...was?"

"We have to go to NCIS, first. I do not know the address, seeing as I was not required to go there myself."

"NCIS." He hadn't thought of that place in...a long time. He shivered.

"Is that all right?"

"Yes." ...but as they drove toward it, he felt himself growing...tense. Yes, that was the word. Tense. Not afraid. Tense. What was there to make him worried? He didn't speak and was grateful that Ducky didn't either. He stared out the window at the world passing by. It was a world he knew, but...but at the same time he felt separated from it.

Then, they were there.

"Do you wish to come inside with me, Timothy? It's late. No one will be there, but you may come in."

He didn't answer, but opened the door and stared at the building looming in front of him. _He_ had never been here. Not once. Nothing here had been touched by him. He followed Ducky in silence, staring around at the familiar surroundings, unsure if he actually remembered them.

"I just need to look up the address and then we can go, Timothy," Ducky said.

Tim nodded and walked around the bullpen, looking at everything there. Then, as if pulled by a magnet, he walked to...to his desk.

"This is my place," he whispered.

Ducky didn't hear him.

Tim ran his fingers over the items on the desk, the computer, the keyboard, the weird mouse doohickey. Tentatively, he sat down in the chair and stared at the view it gave him. It was right...but not exactly. He couldn't think why. Slowly, he closed his eyes, letting his back touch the chair, resting his arms on the armrests. He breathed.

_I'm not afraid. Was I ever afraid here?_

Deep breath. Let it out slowly. Deep breath. Feel the space, feel the...the place. It...it was...right...but not completely.

"Timothy?"

The name that Ducky kept using. It fit the person who belonged in this chair, who should be sitting at this desk. He wasn't. Not yet.

"I found the address. Are you ready to go?"

"No."

"I can wait."

"No. No, I don't want to go there."

Tim would have smiled at the relief on Ducky's face. _Tim_ would have. The man sitting in his chair, living in his skin wasn't sure if he should.

"I can take you back to the hospital."

"No. No, I don't want to go there."

"Where do you want to go then?"

"Back where he was."

"You just said you _didn't_ want that, Timothy."

"Not that place. Back where he was...when...when I killed him." He drew it up from deep inside and stared at Ducky. "I need to go to your house, Ducky."

"Timothy, I don't know if that's a good idea."

"I need to go there. Please, Ducky. Please, help me find...find me again."

Ducky stared at him and Tim stood up to meet his gaze. He was surprised to realize that he was taller than Ducky. That didn't seem right.

"Why do you think you can...find you at my house?"

"Because that's where I need to be. I need to get rid of the monsters, Ducky. They have to have somewhere to go. I have to stop hearing him in my head. I have to find Tim again."

Ducky reached out and gripped his arm, just above the elbow.

"_You_ are Timothy McGee. No one else."

"Not yet...but I might find him again. I need to. Where he was."

"Timothy."

"Please, Ducky. Please. No more pain. No more voices. No more of those things." He yearned for an almost-remembered existence, one that was bereft of the things that caused him so much agony. "Please."

Ducky sighed. "Very well, Timothy. I will take you to my home. Your parents are sleeping there. I will endeavor to explain it to them."

"Thank you."

Tim followed Ducky out of NCIS and watched the world pass by again. Things he knew, areas he didn't know so well. ...and then, after a long silence, the place where he'd been.

He got out and looked up at the house.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I hope I've done the right thing," Ducky said from behind him.

He wasn't sure himself, but he _wanted_ to find Tim again...and if he could...it would be here.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Tim didn't say much to his parents when they awoke the next morning to find that he was in the living room rather than the hospital. Ducky quickly told them about the late night wanderings, but Tim himself just got up and began wandering around the house...searching for himself, perhaps.

Abby phoned, frantic that Tim had disappeared and Ducky felt terribly about forgetting to tell her where he was. She was understandably upset. They all tried to convince him that it would be best to go back to the hospital, but Tim, who had possessed so little ability to do anything at all, now was insisting that this was the only place he could be. Ducky tried to explain to them what Tim had said, but he understood it so little himself that it was difficult to help the others understand.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"We're thinking of taking him with us," Sam said, sitting with Ducky and watching Tim walk around in the back yard.

"Back to Ohio?" Ducky asked.

"Yes," Naomi answered. "We can't stay here forever, but we can't leave him here...not like this."

Ziva was walking around with him. Over the past week, people had taken turns talking to Tim, being with him, trying to reach the part of him that was...that was still alive, still aware. There were moments of clarity...followed by long periods of Tim saying things no one understood...not in the context anyway.

"There are some good psychiatrists at the hospital," Sam said. "We can keep trying there."

"It will be hard for us to let him leave," Ducky said, softly. "As difficult as it has been for us to be locked out...or for us to see Timothy locked inside himself...it will be harder to have him gone completely."

"I know. I know, but...at some point, we're going to have to admit that this is going to take longer than...than we might have planned," Naomi said. "We might have to admit that he's...not..." Tim knelt on the ground and began pulling up grass. Naomi began to cry. "...that he won't ever come out of it. He might be stuck like this forever!"

Tears on his own cheeks, Sam pulled Naomi into a tight hug and rocked her.

"We don't have to admit that, not by a long shot, Naomi. There's time."

"Sometimes...it's like talking to a child again. Other times...he almost frightens me." Naomi looked at Ducky. "Why?"

"Unfortunately, I can only guess."

"Your guesses are better than nothing."

"My _guess_ is that Timothy is trying to find a way to deal with what happened...and he can't. Not yet. He asked me to bring him here so that he could find himself again. He _knows_ that he's locked up. He just doesn't know how to get out. He probably retreated so far inside himself during his imprisonment that he has forgotten how to come back."

"I wish I could show him the way. I've tried. We've all tried...but he just can't hear us," Naomi said.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee, what are you doing?" Ziva asked carefully as she knelt beside him, watching him shape the grass he'd pulled up into little nests. He sat back on his heels and stared at...nothing.

"Waiting," he said softly, still staring.

"What are you waiting for?"

"He was here, you know. Just over there." Tim pointed at a place just off Ducky's property. "A long time."

Ziva followed his finger, trying not to notice his gnarled pinky.

"He was watching you?"

"Yes. A long time."

"Oh, McGee. I am so sorry. I cannot believe how much we missed."

Tim abandoned the grass nests and stood up once more. He began to walk. His gait was a little smoother than it had been, but still not his usual stride. Ziva had no trouble keeping up with him.

"Please, McGee. Please, come back. Don't let that man win." She reached out and touched him on the arm.

Tim didn't answer, the expression on his face the same nearly blank stare that he'd had almost constantly. He continued to walk toward the place where Egner had stood, had watched him. Then, abruptly he stopped. He took another step...and then, stopped again. Ziva watched as the blankness vanished from his face. She watched as he began to hyperventilate and his eyes widened, almost so that they bulged out of his head.

"McGee, what is it?"

Abruptly, he dropped to the ground, his hands gripping his head as he began to speak unintelligibly. Ziva reached out to touch him, but he pulled away from her.

"McGee, talk to me! What is wrong?" she asked, frightened. This Tim was much more like the one they had rescued from that room than it was like the strangely empty shell to which they'd become too accustomed.

"There aren't any monsters. No monsters. No monsters!"

Ziva jumped up and ran for the house, calling for the others.

"Something is wrong with McGee!"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was like stripping his mind of every comforting...and non-comforting...layer that had been wrapped around it. He stared at the space where _he_ had been...and the space had not been filled by a monster. It had been filled by a man. Suddenly, without any warning, he was forced to confront just what that man had done to him. ...and he couldn't. The memories were as fresh as if they had happened just that day rather than weeks ago.

Hands touched him. He cried out.

"Tim. It's Mom."

He didn't pull away, but he didn't reach for her either.

"No monsters, Mama! There are no monsters. They're gone! It was him! It was him all along!"

Then...as he shouted the horror he remembered, he felt...fire bleeding from his eyes. The hands became arms around him, pulling him from the ground and resting him in a lap.

"It's all right, Tim. You can cry. I'm here."

Tears...tears poured down his cheeks and months' worth of fear, anxiety, horror, anger...every negative emotion was expressed...all at once.

"The lights...the lights. He...he _hurt_ me! He...I wanted it to be the monsters, the same ones who hurt Jeff. ...but there weren't any monsters there either. Just...just him. Oh, Mom, it was... I had to watch that movie. Over and over and over and over...and I had to hear him...whispering in my ear. Horrible things...awful." He lost the words and couldn't even give any attention to his breathing, although it was erratic. His whole mind was trying to deal with what he now remembered...and he remembered it all.

"It's over now, Tim. All of that. It's in the past."

The voice he could barely hear was comforting...but it wasn't enough. He could barely breathe for the tears he was sobbing, nearly screaming out.

Another pair of arms around him.

"Oh, it hurt. It hurt so much. Over and over...pouring...water...power...through me...all over... It was so cold and I was on fire. Over and over. He was always there. I can hear his voice in my head! Over and over... And there are no monsters. Just him. The monsters are gone. The monsters are gone." He wept and wept, unable to stop.

"You're right, Tim. The monsters are gone. They never were. The man who did this to you...he was just a man...and he's gone now. He'll never hurt you again."

"I had to watch them die! I had to...to _see_ myself kill them! I saw it. I _felt_ it...and it was all I saw. Over and over...and he was always there..." His voice cracked. "...boring into my brain until...until I couldn't think of anything...couldn't _see_ anything else... couldn't do anything. Nothing at all!" He flung his arms around whoever was holding him. It didn't matter who it was. "I was trapped...trapped like Jeff. Strapped down...held down...watching every second go by. Time...no time. Stuck inside. Oh, he was there! He was everywhere! Always around. Always inside!"

The arms tightened around him. Not holding him down, but holding him up.

"And there are no monsters. Only him. Only him. Always there."

Tears, tears that seemed as though they would drown him continued to flow from his eyes. He wept, pouring out more than brine as he sobbed. Whoever held him began to rock him back and forth.

"Oh, it hurt. It hurt...and it never stopped. He grabbed my...my hand. My finger. Twisted. Over and over."

Someone touched the pinky and his hand curled into a tight fist. Then, a hand began massaging his.

"He said such awful things. All I could hear was him. No crying. No tears. No weakness."

"He was wrong. Tears aren't weakness. 'Tears are the silent language of grief.'"

"No one could hear me. I screamed and no one heard. All alone...except for him. Over and over. The pain...I just want it to stop. I want him to stop hurting me!" His voice cracked again.

"He won't _ever_ hurt you again, Tim. You hear me? He can't. He's dead. He is gone. Forever."

Tim continued to weep, to sob...sometimes to scream...until his voice gave out and he cried silently, drawing in long shaking breaths in between each exhalation of tears. The arms never let him go. The voices murmured to him, drowning out the insidious invective he could still hear.

Occasionally, he tried to speak again, but he couldn't. He had cried himself hoarse and screamed his pain until his voice was gone. No one told him to stop crying.

Gradually, he found that he didn't need to cry so much. The tears still fell but they lacked the anguish they had previously possessed. Then...softly, after more than an hour, he spoke...in little more than a cracked whisper.

"Jeff...he didn't see any monsters, Mama."

"I know, Tim."

"There are no monsters."

"No, Tim. There aren't."

"No monsters."

"No."

"I don't want them to come back."

"We'll keep them away."

There was a silence.

"Am I Tim?"

"Yes, Tim. Yes, you are. You always have been. You always will be."

There was a long, long silence. The grass tickled his ankles. He was sticky and sweaty from the exertions of expressing his agony. There was no sound. None at all. Only the wind, a soft breeze that swept across his bare skin, raising goosebumps.

"I believe you."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

The tangle of arms around Tim held him as his eyes closed and he sagged into sleep, into unconsciousness. Those holding him sighed.

"What was that?" Naomi asked, softly.

"He faced it," Sam said. "For the first time...he faced it."

His wheelchair was on its side and he was sitting on the ground beside Tim, holding him tightly with one arm, using his other arm to hold himself upright. Naomi's arms were more or less around the both of them. Tim's head lolled back against Sam's chest and Naomi brushed the sweaty hair from his eyes. Tim shook, his breath and his body trembling after the extremity of his reaction.

"He faced it...but did he make it."

"I don't know. I don't know."

"He's asleep?" Ducky asked.

"Yes. Could you help, Ducky? My legs aren't what they used to be," Sam said, smiling sadly.

"Of course."

"Here. Allow me," Ziva said. She had sat back and watched as Tim was comforted by his parents. She couldn't help feeling a little envious that Tim had reached for them and only pushed her away. It was silly, of course. Tim would naturally reach for the people he'd known the longest, but...still...it had been hard. Now, however, she could help...and she did, taking Tim gently from Sam's grasp. The feel of him, soaked in sweat, still shuddering with the magnitude of the tears he had shed, it broke her heart. "I have him."

"Yes, I can see that," Naomi said, smiling.

Ducky righted Sam's chair and put on the brakes. Then, Sam pulled himself back into it and Naomi began to push him over the rough lawn.

"I will take his torso if you take his legs, Ducky," Ziva said.

"All right. Let's take him to the living room. I do not want to send him upstairs as yet. The horror is probably too fresh for him to wake up in a bedroom."

"Yes."

Together, they carried Tim into the house. It was difficult seeing as he was not a lightweight, even now, but they managed. Then, they all sat and watched him, breathing their own sighs of relief as the shudders eased away and he fell into a deeper sleep. He slept for hours, a sleep that did not see any of the nervous agitation that had so often disturbed him before. As had become so common, the rest of the team came later on. They took up a sort of vigil, broken only by Ducky insisting that they get some sleep...and that Tim would _not_ feel better having a horde of people hovering over him.

In the end, they actually had to draw straws to see who would be staying. Ziva and Abby won. They stayed, never moving from their positions beside Tim...except to lean forward when he shifted occasionally in his sleep. ...and although it was hard, Sam and Naomi forced themselves to go to bed, hoping that if and when Tim awakened, whatever change had begun in his mind would continue.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_He ran through the darkness. The hot, stinking breath was on his neck. Sometimes, sometimes, he felt the almost gentle caress...of the claws that would stab into him should they find purchase. He redoubled his speed and the claws fell away. ...but he couldn't outrun it forever. Sooner or later, he would tire and need to rest. He had to hide, had to get away._

"_Here! Come here!"_

_The voice was familiar, someone he knew was calling him to come. Someone...someone who could make him safe, someone who would keep him from being taken...taken away again. Maybe he could go there and not have to hide._

"_Where are you?"_

_It was so dark. So...so dark. _

"_Timmy, wake up!"_

_The claw touched him again...no...no, not the claw, the...the hand?_

"_Help!"_

"_Timmy, wake up!"_

_It was cold. Why was it cold?_

"_Please, McGee. Please, wake up."_

Breathe. Breathe. Keep breathing. That's important. Breathing keeps you alive. In and out. In and out. Rhythmic. Let the air in. Let the air out.

No. No. Don't let the fear tell you how to breathe. In and out. Slowly.

In and out. The fear doesn't mean you have to gasp. The air is there to breathe. Let it in. Let it out.

"_McGee, can you hear me?"_

There. You see? Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

No! No. Stay calm. Nothing to fear. Nothing to frighten you. Deep slow breath in. Deep slow breath out.

"_Tim, please, please, talk to me. Open your eyes!"_

Listen, but keep breathing. You can breathe and listen at the same time. In and out. In and out. Slowly.

Yes. That's better.

_A menace, hovering in the darkness. So close behind him...so..._

No! No, that's not what you know. That's not what you're doing. Breathe. Breathe.

"_Maybe we should get them."_

"_Wait."_

Breathing is better now. Good. Yes. That's right. You can breathe. You can take it in and let it out. Just keep doing that.

_There beyond..._

"No. No...no..."

"Tim?"

He opens his eyes, green staring into green. Brown hovering close behind. The eyes become more than just eyes.

"Tim?"

Deep breath. Let out slowly.

He shifts his eyes from the green to the brown and back to the green.

"Can you hear me, Tim?"

The eyes are kind. They are lovely. Both sets of eyes are.

"I know you," he whispers.

"Good."

Breathing. Keep breathing.

"I know you, too," he adds, looking at the brown eyes.

"Yes."

"I...I think...I think I know me." He thinks, looks into his own mind. It is tangled, torn, trampled...but it is his own. It is a fearful place, one full of frightening memories...but they are just memories...if only he can remember that.

"Who are you, then?" The brown eyes.

"Me. I think." He struggles to make the words make sense because knows that didn't. "I'm Tim...aren't I?"

"Yes."

Breathe.

"I...He was..." He tries to marshal his thoughts, tries to think _around_ the moments.

"Do you remember what happened, today, McGee?"

"Ziva!"

"Quiet! McGee, do you remember?"

Brown eyes. He looks at her. More than brown eyes.

"Ziva," he says, testing it out. Her name...and those horrible images...but more than that. _She _is there.

"Yes, McGee. Do you remember?"

"The monsters went away." He remembers them, but they are fading, replaced by...

Breathe. Don't hold it in. In and out. Slow.

"I saw him."

Keep breathing. Yes.

"Yes."

Arms around him. A scent...familiar.

"Abby."

"Yes, Tim. It's me." Her voice is muffled.

"Is he gone?"

"Yes. For good."

"I...shot him. I remember."

"Yes."

Breathe. Breathe.

"In the room...upstairs. Here. He was here, and I killed him." He looks at the brown eyes...at _Ziva_. "...but I didn't kill you. It was only a movie."

"Yes..._yes_, McGee."

"...and...and...he..." Breathe. Keeping breathing. Don't stop. "...he hurt me. ...for a long time."

"Yes," Abby says. Her arms tighten around him, somehow feeling safer than he did before. "But he never will again. _Never_."

He pulls back and looks at her, at Ziva.

"Tony? Gibbs?"

Breathe. Breathe. Listen. Hear it. Wait.

Ziva nods. "They are fine. They are probably sleeping."

"I...didn't kill them, either?" It's not a question. It isn't. He knows. "It was a movie, too?"

"Yes."

He sits up and forces...Abby...to lean back, to let him go. It is both a relief and a disappointment. He looks around the room. It is familiar, but he feels almost as though he is truly seeing it for the first time. Then, he lifts his hand, his right hand and stares at it, fingers splayed. He stares and stares.

Breathing.

It is quiet. No one is speaking.

Breathing.

Carefully, he reaches out with his left hand and begins to touch his right hand, slowly tracing each finger. They are knuckly fingers, no trace of extra flesh. Then...he pauses as he traces the outlines of his pinky finger. It is as damaged as his mind.

Don't stop breathing.

From the gnarled lower knuckle to the upper joints that had been twisted too many times, it looked like the finger of...of a monster.

No.

Another hand, small and strong, reached out and caressed his pinky, stroking it gently.

"He did this to me. ...so many times."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To cause you pain. That is why they do it."

"But it's not fair...not right." He looks up from his hand, the fingers beginning to close.

Remember to breathe.

"No. No, it's not. I hate that he did." Abby is angry about it.

That same hand pulls his down and massages it until he relaxes, until he almost forgets that it feels so strange.

"Me, too."

"Tim, you're going to be okay."

"Are you sure?" He is not. There are things that are still wrong...although that pain he has felt so deep inside is now gone...mostly.

She doesn't answer right away.

"Abby...Abby, are you sure?"

"We are sure, McGee."

"I don't know."

"You will."

"When?" He wants to believe her. He wants it to be true. He wants so _much_ for it all to be true.

"It's going to take some time, Tim...but Ziva's right. You will."

"How do you know?"

Abby kneels in front of him and he notices for the first time that he is on a couch.

"Because I can see it in your eyes."

"See what?"

Abby's smile...so comforting. "You see me. You see us. You're not just...looking."

His left hand covers the smaller hand massaging his right...and then Abby's covers it.

"It is true, McGee."

He nods. It's better to believe and hope than not to believe and live in the fear that lingers in his mind. Perhaps the hope can keep it away.

"We are not lying."

"I believe you."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Tim slept after that. He slept through the night...and finally, finally, in the ensuing days, the recovery that he should have shown before began to manifest itself. Not all at once, not quickly...achingly slowly at times, but the progress was there. However, even with progress, there were setbacks. The nightmares which had been absent from Tim's slumber when he was suppressing all memories of what had happened beneath a waking nightmare of monsters attacking him began to take their rightful place in disturbing his rest. He began having bouts of waking up screaming, crying or just shaking so violently that it was hard to calm him down. During the day, as well, he would have moments when he would suddenly take a deep breath and close his eyes. On the rare occasions when he was left alone, his hand often strayed to the broken pinky, tracing the gnarled lines of something that could never be fully healed.

As bad as the nights had become, as tenuous as Tim's sanity seemed to be at times, he was definitely improving. It would be impossible to explain to anyone who had not seen him before exactly how this fearful, anxious man was an improvement over the silent shadow he'd been in the past month, but those who knew him also knew that he _was_ improved...if for no other reason than that he was actually living in reality and mostly confining the nightmares to the nighttime. That was an improvement. Seeing Tim _look_ at them without being afraid of them or of himself was an improvement. Talking to Tim and getting understandable answers was an improvement. They might be simplistic at times, but Tim was there. He was answering. He was...Tim. Battered and broken but he was himself. That was an improvement.

They couldn't complain.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim, we'd like to talk to you if you don't mind."

Tim looked up from the book he'd been reading, laying out on the back lawn, nearly sprawled out on his back. Over the past couple of weeks, he had taken to staying outside as much as possible, stretched out in positions that looked uncomfortable but allowed him to feel the full extent of his freedom.

"Okay." He got up and followed Naomi into the house, to the living room where Sam was waiting. He sat down and looked at them both. "What?"

"Before the last couple weeks, we were talking about taking you home to Ohio with us. We can't stay here forever, and even though Sam's taken a leave of absence, he misses enough days that we..."

"...don't want him to miss more," Tim finished for them. His eyes moved away from them, around the room and then settled on a point above their heads. "I understand."

"We also don't want to impose on Ducky's hospitality," Sam said. "He's been wonderful. They all have, but it _is_ an imposition no matter how much he claims it isn't."

"So...what's the question?" Tim asked, still not looking at them. Absently, he began to rub his right pinky.

"We couldn't really ask you before because...you wouldn't have really heard. We can now...and before we say anything to anyone else, we want to ask you if that's something you'd like to do."

"Go to Ohio? Move away from here?"

"Not permanently."

"It's going to be a long time," Tim said, softly. Abruptly, his eyes closed and he had to take a long deep breath...a sure sign that he'd had a memory intrude on his consciousness. "A long time," he said again.

"Yes. It probably would...until you...got back on your feet."

Tim was silent, but his eyes did reopen. He looked at them and then looked away again. Finally, after a few minutes, he shook his head.

"No."

"Why not?" Sam asked. It was not a rhetorical question.

"I need to be here." He started to stand but then stopped mid-rise and sank back down onto the couch. He rubbed his hands against the cushion nervously. "I can't go away."

"Why, Tim?" Naomi asked.

"I still..." This time he did get up. He walked away from them to the window and looked out on the front yard. "...I still...forget. I need to...to _see_ them, to remember that I..." A hand lifted to the curtains but dropped as it began to shake. Tim's back straightened visibly as he was trying to keep a grip. "...that I didn't kill them, that they're still alive, that...that it's over."

He didn't turn around, but they didn't need to see his face to know when he mastered his fear. There was a relaxing of his body that said he wasn't going to shake anymore.

"Maybe later on. Maybe...after a while I can leave, but I can't, not yet. I can't, Mom."

"We would never force you, Tim...but..."

"You need to go," Tim said. He turned around to face them. "You don't want to leave."

"Not with you still healing," Sam said.

"I'm...it's going to take a long time. You can't stay forever." Tim's words were slow, almost as though he was choosing each one carefully before he spoke it out loud.

"I know."

"So...you h-have to go."

"Can you deal with that, Tim?"

"I've been...been Tim for...two weeks. I'm...getting better."

"Yes, you are," Sam said, nodding firmly.

"You want me to be..." Tim hesitated and then unexpectedly smiled. "...more better than I am."

Sam chuckled. "Yes, that seems to be the only way of phrasing it, no matter how bad it sounds to my grammatical ear."

Tim walked back to his parents and surprised them by kneeling down in front of them, his face earnest.

"I'm not...yet. I want to be. I don't want...you to worry. It will take...time. A long time." He looked down at his right hand and then lifted it up, pointing to the deformed finger. "Maybe...maybe I'll be...like this. Better but...never normal again."

Naomi reached out and took his hand, covering all his fingers with her own hand.

"No, Tim. You _will_ heal. You'll always have something from this...this horror that will affect you. You'll be different, but you won't be twisted like this."

"How do you know?" Tim asked, now plaintive. "I don't know that."

"Because, Tim, you _are_ getting better," Sam said. "That's how we know. Aristotle said, 'Suffering becomes beautiful when anyone bears great calamities with cheerfulness, not through insensibility but through greatness of mind.' You may not be cheerful just yet, but even now, I can see your greatness of mind reasserting itself."

"How?"

"Because you have nightmares every night and you still go back sleep. You remember what happened and you aren't retreating again. You're not shutting us out. Those are the things that lead to the kind of pain that is destructive. Your pain is also your healing."

"What if I fall again?"

Naomi slid off the chair and knelt in front of Tim. "Then, someone will be there to catch you."

"Promise?"

Naomi hugged him tightly. "Promise. It may not be us, but _someone_ will _always_ catch you if you fall."

He didn't have to say that he believed her. He had moved beyond wanting to believe. Now, he could hope in himself.

...and he hoped his parents were right.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Time moved on. Sam and Naomi went back to Ohio...and left Tim behind in DC. He continued to stay with Ducky simply because it was easier to manage. Tim might not exactly have _enjoyed_ it, but it was better than moving him around every few days to stay with someone else or putting him back in the hospital full time. He wasn't yet ready to live in his own apartment alone, although that would hopefully come. The good-byes had been difficult, and it was all Naomi could do to keep herself from calling every day...and more. Still, the separation forced Tim into a position of relative independence. He had his friends around him all the time, but he was also without the easy foundation of his family, or rather of his parents. Sarah had been in and out, but the change in Tim was hard for her to deal with and, to be honest, he had barely noticed her absences. However, she did love her brother and was there when needed. In an effort to make sure that Ducky wasn't the only one who had to help Tim along, particularly at night when his subconscious took control, a rotation of Tim's friends began. Every night, someone was there. Tim received more than comfort from these nightly visitors. He received the confirmation he still needed that he was not responsible for their deaths.

...and time moved on in her stately unending march...as she always does...

_Tim sat up, shouting, "No! No, not again!"_

"_Shh... It is all right, McGee. You are safe." One gentle hand easing him back was enough._

_He sank back down to the bed without even waking up completely. Ziva watched him in his restless slumber, ready to banish the memories when they reared up in the form of dreams._

Things that had become normal now shifted to the past. Things that were untenable arose and passed on...

_Gibbs watched Tim as he slept. His eyes were moving rapidly back and forth beneath his eyelids. He began to moan softly, fidgeting anxiously. Gibbs reached out, touched his shoulder._

"_We're all safe, Tim. Don't worry. You're safe. There's nothing wrong."_

_Tim didn't even seem to hear him as he stilled beneath the comforting hand. He settled into a deeper sleep, never waking at all. The dreams banished by the hand of someone he needed to know was all right._

People who cared were there to see the moments, were there to cheer on the small victories...

"_He slept through the night."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yes. He is sleeping still."_

"_My ears are burning. Are you talking about me?" Tim asked as he came into the living room from the spare room that had been his parents'. He had not yet gone upstairs. The joke was awkward, but everyone appreciated the effort too much to bug him about it._

"_Just discussing your sleeping habits, Probie."_

"_Exciting, are they?"_

"_You are improving, McGee. That is exciting."_

"_Slowly."_

"_...but surely," Tony finished, his smile encouraging._

Moments that seemed impossible, that could never possibly come to pass became reality...

"_Did you see what I did, Ducky?" Tim asked. His smile was a little anxious, but it was genuine._

"_Yes, Timothy." It was such a small thing, Tim walking into the bedroom where Egner had forced the showdown. Ducky himself was a bit nervous about this event, but Tim walked around, looking at the wall, at the bed, out the window._

"_It's just a room, isn't it?"_

"_Yes. Just a room."_

Emotions, thoughts, ideas long thought totally extinguished reemerged into the light of day...

"_You know, Ducky, if you just let me look over your hard drive, I'll bet I could make it work faster. It's really simple."_

_Tim was already hovering over it, almost eagerly._

"_Are you sure? It works already."_

"_But not as well as it _should_, Ducky! Let me see if I can make it better."_

"_Very well."_

Not all was smooth sailing, of course. There were storms, fears that exploded out without warning...

"_No! Please, don't touch me! Don't let him touch me! I don't want to do it! Please!" Tim collapsed to his knees._

"_McGee, it's just me. It's Tony." He knelt down in front of Tim and forced him to look up. "I'm okay. ...you're okay."_

"_Tony?"_

"_Yeah."_

_Tim began to cry, covering his eyes. "I was back there."_

"_I know. It's all right."_

And yet, things were improving. Some of the most amazing moments of progress occurred when Tim was alone...

_Tim stared at the broken finger. It would always look broken, twisted. Always. He supposed there might be something that could be done to repair some of the cosmetic damage, but it would never look the same again. There had been too much done to it. Too much twisting. Too many breaks. Not enough healing._

"_But it still works," he whispered. He was alone, for a wonder. "I can still use it just like any other finger. It works."_

_He looked up at the mirror and stared at himself. He was still skinny, still had a bewildered look in his eyes at times, but he looked more or less normal. It was his mind that was damaged, his mind that was twisted, that had been broken too many times. That was the part of him that needed healing. ...and it was. Maybe, unlike his finger, it would heal completely._

"_But never exactly the same."_

_Did that have to be a bad thing, though?_

The changes were apparent to those around him, no matter how little they chose to acknowledge them...

"_Come on, McGee! It's a movie! Everyone else has said no."_

_Tim almost smiled. "I don't really want to watch movies anymore, Tony. Those haven't turned out very good for me in the past."_

_Tony faltered, remembering the last movie Tim had watched...and realizing suddenly that Tim had not so much as flipped on a television since his recovery. However, he rallied quickly._

"_Please, McGee?" he begged dramatically. "It's a comedy!"_

"_By whose standards?"_

"_Mine, of course!"_

_Tim gave Tony the long piercing stare that was becoming disconcertingly normal for him, as if he was analyzing everything from his own words to his stance before answering aloud._

"_I don't know," he said finally._

"_Please?" Tony begged again. "Besides, it will get you out of Ducky's house, just for a while."_

_Tim sighed...but nodded. "Okay. I'll go."_

"_Yes!" Tony pumped his fist in the air._

"_You're too excited."_

_Tony just grinned._

Whether it was being willing to go places or just being able to sit and talk to someone without a flashback, the improvements were treasured...

"_Boss, how did you figure it out?"_

"_Figure what out, McGee?"_

"_Where I was."_

"_We didn't. We got an anonymous tip."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yeah, probably from Egner himself."_

_Tim was silent for a moment, digesting this information._

"_He must have been planning."_

"_Yeah. ...but he failed."_

"_Yep, he did."_

_Tim didn't smile but his expression was one of satisfaction._

"_Sometimes, things do go right, don't they, Boss."_

"_Sometimes."_

Things did go right. ...but they weren't always right enough. Tim began wondering how right they could be...

_He sat on the grass, staring at the place where Egner had stood for so many days, staring at him. Tim came here a lot, even more now that they were giving him time to himself. He needed to, needed to be able to think alone, _be_ alone. Alone in his mind, he had no distractions from what was in there. At the moment, it wasn't too bad._

"_I can't stay here forever," he said quietly, speaking to the empty space. He stood up and walked over to the area. "I'm never going to get better if I don't leave. I know that."_

_Sometimes, however, he wasn't so sure. There were moments, when he felt as nameless, as lacking in identity as he had when under Egner's power. It was then that he wanted nothing more than to receive the comfort and assurance that his friends could give him._

_Still, there was something to be said for the progress he himself could see he'd made...but at times, he just wasn't sure. He was still too used to having no choices at all, no say in how his life went...having no life at all. It was strange now to feel that he had options._

_One of the smiles that he gave so rarely again showed up._

"_I have a choice."_

_It was amazing how small things like that were so incredibly important._

If Tim had seemed quieter than usual, it was a calmer quiet and calm was to be appreciated no matter how it manifested itself. He didn't explain it for another week, during which time he had convinced both himself and Dr. Sakota that he was on the right track.

"_I think I'm ready to leave, Ducky."_

"_Are you sure, lad? There's no reason to rush into it."_

"_It's been weeks. Where's the rushing part?" Tim asked...and smiled._

"_It just seems rather sudden is all."_

"_I talked to Dr. Sakota about it. She agrees that it's time for me to try."_

"_Alone?"_

_Tim's expression wavered. "Might as well try it all the way, just to see." He looked away and then back, unconsciously rubbing his pinky, a sure sign that he was worried._

"_What do the others say?"_

"_Nothing yet."_

"_They don't know?"_

"_I wanted to have someone on my side first." Tim's accompanying smile was all the more precious because it was so rare._

"_You think I am a worthy ally?"_

"_You all are, but I need someone to believe me, to believe that I'm ready to try."_

_Ducky looked Tim in the eye, studying him, looking for any sign that all was not well, and then he nodded. "I believe you."_


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Tim's first night alone came months after his rescue, months after the final demise of his captor, weeks after his rejoining reality. Ducky had to argue vociferously for it, against the well-founded worries of the NCIS team. Jimmy unexpectedly joined in the support...and perhaps because his voice was so unexpected in the debate, Tim carried the day. ...and it was okay...not perfect, but okay...

"_How many nights did you manage it, Tim? How many before you called someone?"_

"_Five. Only five."_

"_Not only."_

"_Five. Five nights. The nightmares..."_

"_...are still there. That's to be expected. What did you do in response?"_

"_I tried to deal with them myself, but I had to call for help."_

"_Whom did you call?"_

"_Ghostbusters?"_

_A smile._

"_Ziva. She was closest."_

Two steps forward. One step back. Sometimes, it was five steps forward, one step back. Sometimes, it was no steps forward and two steps back...but always, there was a cumulative forward motion...

"_Tim, what are you doing here?"_

"_I wanted to ask you something, Abby."_

"_At work?"_

"_Yeah."_

"_What?"_

"_Do you still have the chair?"_

_No need to ask what "the chair" was._

"_Why?"_

"_I want to see it."_

"_Why?"_

"_Please, Abby, just answer me."_

"_Yes. It's in the evidence lockup."_

"_Will you come with me to see it?"_

_Abby put down the form she was signing. "If you tell me why."_

_Tim nodded. "It's been a long time. It's always there in the back of my mind. Always. Even now. I need to...to see what it was. I never did. I was only a part of it. I never saw myself separate. In my nightmares it's still that way. It's a part of me that I can't ignore. I can never ignore. I need this, Abby."_

_Abby looked at him...and then, she nodded reluctantly. "I don't like it, Tim, but okay."_

Moments. Tim sometimes thought of his life as consisting of discrete events, moments that stood out amidst a wash of background noise. It wasn't that he didn't remember the other parts, just that they didn't mean as much as those important moments that took up so much space in his head, as short as they were...

"_It's frightening. It's evil. ...but it's just a chair." Tim walked around it, taking in every inch. His eyes were roving over the metal, the straps, the wiring, the speakers._

"_Yeah, I agree."_

"_With which part?"_

"_All of it. It's hard to believe that he could do so much evil with something so simple."_

"_I still don't like sitting in chairs with arms. I can...but I don't like to." Tim rubbed his arms. There were faint scars from the ulcerated skin. Tentatively, he reached out. His hand stopped just short of touching it. He laughed apprehensively. "I'm afraid to touch it."_

"_You don't have to."_

"_Yes, I do. I need to...to see it, to know."_

"_Do you need help?"_

_Tim straightened his shoulders and shook his head. "No. I can do it." He reached out again...and touched the back of the chair. The touch became a trailing caress as he walked around to the front, fingers tracing the lines of the device used to break him._

"_Tim? Are you all right?"_

_A shudder rippled through Tim's body and he took a deep controlled breath. His eyes closed and the touch became a grip and then, abruptly, Tim let go of the chair and backed away, his eyes opening._

"_Tim?"_

"_I'm okay. It's still so real, Abby. So real. So...so close."_

_Abby walked over and hugged him._

"_I know. That's why you have us."_

"_I know."_

Steps forward that didn't seem like steps forward in the beginning, but became important. Vital to his healing. The healing that continued, oh so slowly...

"_Agent McGee, I'm surprised to see you here," Vance commented._

"_I guess you've had to deal with my absence for a long time, Director," Tim said._

"_I'm all right with that."_

"_I want to come back to work. Just a little bit, just part time...desk duty. I'm not ready for more, but I want to get back to my normal life."_

"_How much do you want?"_

"_You're all right with that?" Tim was surprised at his easy capitulation._

"_Agent McGee, you have fought back from something that has destroyed many people in this world. If you truly want to come back to NCIS, I would be a fool to begrudge you the opportunity."_

_Vance was treated to one of Tim's rare smiles, this one a bit wistful._

"_I do want to come back. Things will never be the same. _I'll_ never be the same, but I'm getting to the point where...where I can accept the things that have changed."_

"_Are you of the opinion that you'll be able to return to field status eventually?"_

"_I'm hoping to. I think I can...eventually. If you have the patience to let me...I want to take those steps I'll need. They have to be small. They have to be if I'm going to make it."_

_Vance leaned forward across his desk. "Agent McGee, you take as much time, as small steps as you need. We will be delighted to have you back, no matter how long it takes."_

_Another smile, less wistful...but still tinged with that darkness that he would never fully shake._

"_Thank you, sir. Thank you. I can't tell you how much I–"_

"_No, Agent McGee. Good sense needs no thanks. I wish you only the best."_

"_I don't need the best. I just need...my life."_

Still time passed. It couldn't stop passing. Minutes to hours. Hours to days. Days to weeks. Weeks to months...

"_McGee?"_

_Tim was staring blindly at his monitor, rubbing his pinky, holding it gently in his left hand._

"_McGee?"_

_Tim looked up, aware that he hadn't been paying attention._

"_You all right, Probie?"_

"_Yeah...no...yeah."_

"_Which is it, McGee?"_

_Tim shrugged and tried to smile, but the smiles didn't often come easily anymore._

"_Can I make it?"_

"_Make it where?" Ziva asked, furrowing her brow._

"_Course you can, Probie," Tony said in the same instant._

"_Some days...like today...I'm not so sure."_

"_Why today?"_

"_I keep looking for him. I keep feeling like he's just behind me, just out of sight, watching me." Tim shuddered and resumed rubbing at his pinky._

_Ziva stood and walked over to Tim's desk. "He is not," she said gently._

"_I know. Doesn't stop me from thinking about it, though."_

Months. How had it become so many months? It didn't seem possible that so much time had gone by. And yet it had. It had been nearly a year. How had the days turned so swiftly to months passing? No matter how. They had. Time had flown by. Time. A thing which had been stolen from him. Time. Moments which had taken place outside it. Time. A precious commodity which he would never again take for granted. Time...

"_This is a probationary reassignment to field status," Vance said, his voice firm but not unsympathetic. "The next case which is called in, you will be a part of the investigation. Let's test the waters."_

"_See if I sink or swim?" Tim asked. Even nearly a year later, he didn't smile much. That shadow in his eyes would always be there to some extent. One simply could not brush off the experiences he'd had._

"_I don't think you'll sink...Agent McGee," Vance said._

"_How much further are we carrying this analogy?" Tim asked, a faint twinkle momentarily lighting up his eyes._

"_How much further do you think we can?"_

_Tim's lips twitched. "Well, if you don't think I'll sink, I suppose you think there's a danger that, instead of getting an Olympic swimmer, you're going to get the loser kid who can only dog paddle to the edge after doing a cannonball into the swimming pool."_

_Vance smiled...and even Tim's solemn expression gave way to a grin._

"_Yes, I suppose that works, although it's stretching the analogy to its limits."_

_Tim's smile faded as if it had never been. "I can't tell you that you won't be faced with that kind of situation, Director. I can't because I don't know."_

"_However...?"_

"_However, Dr. Sakota...and I think that I'm ready...if you do."_

"_I wouldn't be putting you on probationary status if I didn't, Agent McGee."_

"_Thank you, sir."_

He'd gone through every hoop ever set up to make sure that an agent could still perform up to standards. He had checked out at the firing range. He qualified. He had kept up his computer skills and had been using them for the last six months. He'd been cleared, pending any new issues, by his psychiatrist. Although he suffered from occasional headaches which had never managed to be cured, they weren't debilitating, merely annoying. The one unquantifiable aspect was...his spirit. Tim himself, his very essence, was the question mark. Was it up to the stresses of being a field agent? Was this something he really wanted or was it just a need to get back to normal life?

"_I missed wearing this," Tim said softly as he pulled on his official NCIS gear, the hat, the jacket, the camera around his neck._

"_It's very slimming, Probie. I can see why," Tony said. Thankfully, they were used to Tim's continued gaunt look. He didn't look starved anymore, but he had that intense expression which spoke volumes about his past experiences._

_Tim smiled in response._

"_McGee...photos!" Gibbs ordered...but he smiled as he gave the command, smiled because it was nice to be able to say it, nice to know that he could. "DiNozzo, bag and tag. Ziva, help Ducky out. He's flying solo today."_

_The team scattered to obey...and for once, Tim's smile didn't fade. It stayed._

The probationary status had lasted a month before Tim was permanently reinstated as an NCIS special agent. He had made no fuss about it, not about the length, nor about the reinstatement. He had greeted the news with a quiet smile, one full of gratitude, not only for his full return. He had been grateful for what that return symbolized inside him.

"_Come on, McGee! We've got to celebrate!" Tony said._

"_Yes, McGee. This is an important event. It should be acknowledged."_

"_I've been working for weeks already. It's not that important," Tim said._

"_It is, though, Timothy. It is important to acknowledge momentous occasions, even when the moment is merely a symbol of something that already exists."_

_Tim looked around at them. What they didn't know, what he couldn't possibly find the words to explain to them was that their presence, the very fact that they were all there with him, all rooting for him...that was far more important than the news from on high that he was approved as a field agent once more._

"_If acknowledgment is that important, Ducky," Tim said, smiling, "I suppose I can tolerate a celebration."_

"_Yes! Party time!" Tony said._

_Abby hugged Tim tightly. "Besides, how often do you have Tony offering to pay?" she asked slyly._

"_Hey, I never said that!"_

_Tim actually laughed, a sound much more rare than his smiles._

"_Something small, though," he said. "I'd rather not have a big party."_

"_How about dinner at my place?" Gibbs offered._

_Tim looked at him and nodded. "That sounds nice."_

_It was. It was nice and it would have been nice had Gibbs suggested that they stand out in Willard Park and stare at each other for an hour. ...because they would have been there. All of them. That was all that mattered._


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Two years. It had been two years to the day since Egner had first taken him. One year and nine months since his rescue. Nine months since his return. Eight months since he had officially resumed his life. All those moments...moments that had changed his life permanently, some for the better, some most definitely for the worse.

Tim sat quietly in his apartment. It was one of those things that had changed about him. He sometimes spent over an hour just sitting, staring blankly at the wall or whatever else happened to be in front of him at the time. He _was_ thinking, though. There was a thought which had been consuming his every free moment for the past week. They'd all even noticed. Tim smiled a bit at that. Yes, they noticed when he changed. It was good of them to notice even now....but he hadn't told them what was going through his mind. For one thing, he knew they'd immediately disagree with his idea. They'd try to make him change his mind.

_No, not make me. They'd try to show me why it's such a bad idea,_ Tim corrected himself. They didn't force him. He still saw Dr. Sakota every week and she never tried to force him either. Before he went, however, there was someone he needed to call.

"_McGee residence."_

"Hey, Dad."

"_Tim. What's up?"_

"Ayn Rand. 'The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours.'"

Sam didn't miss a beat. _"T. S. Eliot. 'Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.'" _

"'It is not because things are difficult that we do not dare, it is because we do not dare that they are difficult.' Seneca."

"'_Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.' Ambrose Redmoon."_

Tim began to say another one, but he was stopped.

"_No, Tim. I know what has to come next. Save it."_

"I could say it, Dad. I _can_ say it now."

"_I know. You're going there, aren't you?"_

"How did you know?"

"_Because that's the one place you haven't been. Tell him that, let him know how thoroughly he's failed."_

"He won't hear me, Dad."

"_Doesn't matter. Save it. Then, come back and you can tell it to me."_

"Okay, Dad." Tim hung up and stared vacantly out the window.

A wet nose on his hand startled him and he looked down.

"Jethro...well, what do you think? Am I crazy?" he asked.

Jethro cocked his head to the side and panted at him eloquently.

"You want to come with me?"

That was a definite yes. Tim smiled again. It was getting easier to smile although he wondered if he'd ever really feel the kind of happiness that was untempered by sorrow. Shrugging off the thought, he grabbed Jethro's leash and left his apartment.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

When he reached the building, he was unsurprised to see the notice. It would be torn down soon. The building was an eyesore and it was crumbling. No matter. He wouldn't be here long. He locked his car and trotted into the building, up the old creaky stairs to the third floor. As he walked along the hallway, he knew that what he'd be seeing was not the instruments of his torture. Those had all been removed. All that would be left was an empty room. Again, that didn't matter. What mattered was that he was there, that he was confronting it once and for all. Back when his mind had been so cluttered with pain, he'd known that this was necessary, although the timing had been wrong. Now was the right time.

Down the hallway, to the door...the only door that was maintained at all. Jethro whined a little but walked with him.

Tim hesitated. He knew what he'd see in there, but that didn't matter either because it was what he _had_ seen in that room that still cast a cloud over him at times. With a deep breath, he opened the door...on a dusty room.

It was empty. Empty, dusty. Dimly lit. There was nothing in here. Still, Tim stepped inside and walked around it. He could see the marks on the floor where the chair had been bolted down, the holes in the ceiling where the pipe had been installed, the wiring used to bring the needed electricity into the room, the door that led to the other exit, allowing him to keep the room dark at all times.

Tim walked all around. In his mind's eye, he could see himself strapped down and Egner hovering as he so thoroughly tried to tear Tim's humanity from him.

"I won," he whispered to that vision. "You didn't. You lost."

There was no response.

Another deep breath, let out slowly...and Tim realized that he was calm. He wasn't frightened by this room. That made him smile.

"'You can chain me, you can torture me, you can even destroy this body, but you will _never _imprison my mind.' Mohandas Gandhi."

The image disappeared and Tim stared at where it had been for a few minutes. Then, he looked down at Jethro who was sitting patiently beside him.

"Let's go, Jethro. I'm ready."

Together, they walked out, leaving the room...and the man inside it, far, far behind.

FINIS!


End file.
